As an official masochist, yours truly has a tendency to jump off the cliff every once in a while. Not literally, unfortunately. My kind of jumping off the cliff includes taking formal piano lessons in a music school and thus juggling Spartan piano practices and dreadful piano exams and work; taking a part-time job when I am already buried from the neck down with the workload of my main job, for the sake of ‘doing something outside the routines’; or throwing sarcastic remarks to a senior colleague for everybody to hear, and sarcastic means as sarcastic as to make my other colleagues stop talking and immediately pretend contemplating their nails. Oh wait. That last one doesn’t have anything to do with my being a masochist. That’s just mean. That’s just me.
Anyway.
In one masochism bout, I decided that I wanted to go back to studying classical piano formally. The tuition fee isn’t cheap, and in one delirious moment, I had this precarious idea that I should earn extra money by giving private piano lessons. I toyed with this idea for months; and a few weeks ago, probably not quite recuperated from a brain damage due to the rubella, I put an ad in a monthly community magazine that I’d give private piano lessons for children and/or beginners. Thinking that the ad would be published in January, I quickly forgot about it. Well, not completely. In the back of my mind I still worry about my insufficient skill, and the fact that I haven’t been practising enough lately. Hell, how am I supposed to teach a person how to read musical notes? But still, January is a long way from here. I can still afford to procrastinate.
Last Monday, though, barely sober after a full day in front of the computer deciphering what seemed like ancient Greek, I got a phone call from a lady inquiring about the tuition fee.
Of the piano lessons.
That I would give.
THE PIANO LESSONS THAT I WOULD GIVE???
The bloody ad was apparently published last week, instead of in January. While talking with the lady about fees and the lesson’s duration and whether five is too young an age to start studying the piano, I looked down to my hands and saw ten horrid telltale signs that I hadn't been practising enough; that I was indeed getting my masochist self into trouble once again.
No piano players in their right minds ever, ever keep their fingernails long.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Friday, December 23, 2005
SINCE WHEN DOES IT MATTER, ANYWAY?
I stumbled in the night
Never really knew what it would’ve been like
You’re no longer there to break my fall*
No no I am not gonna cry. Something has been ringing in my ears since early this month, that nothing ever matters in the end.
Ever notice how brains act like a magnifying glass? That sometimes our brains multiply the goodness, or the badness of something, out of proportion? I believe something is never as bad as it seems, and sadly, never as good either. Even if you lose a leg (God forbid), in the end you’ll make peace with yourself, in the end it won’t matter anymore. Nothing matters.
I remember seeking for a place to hide, and cried my eyes out when I was 11. That was because I got 50 for a maths test. At that time it was a disaster. As soon as I saw that big, fat, 50 score scribbled on my test, I whispered to myself, “God, I’ve been so ungrateful…I’ve never thanked You every time I get a good score” (funny how an 11-year-old brain works, isn’t it?) then I hurried to my hiding place and cried.
Nope, don’t remember when test scores stopped to matter.
Ever since then many disasters came my way, all seemed huge and important at first, then faded away and lost their impacts. In the end nothing matters.
Oh, I’m not so foolish, so arrogant as not to admit that I once fell for you. I admit all that. I also admit these: sometimes I cried when you asked me out for a date then cancelled it. Sometimes I thought of you all day. Sometimes I missed you. There was a time when I thought your feelings for me were real. There was a time when I truly believed, Dear, when you held me close, gosh I don’t want to sound sappy here, but there was a time when I truly believed that you loved me. Sorry if I sound like a love-struck 16 year-old, but there was really a time when we had our moments. Hell, too many moments to list down, yet too few to leave a deep impact on me.
I admit all those.
And I’ll admit that they slowly, and steadily, fade away. Every once in a while I’ll think of you. Like every once in a while you’ll think of me. Then after some time has passed, I’ll be able to say that as much as I never matter to you, you never matter to me either.
When a lonely heart breaks, it’s the one that forsake
It’s the dream that we stole
And I’m missing you now.
And the fire that will roar :
there's a hole in my soul.
*Lyrics from ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls”, Bee Gees.Might not be accurate. Written here without the permission of copyright holder. All rights reserved by copyright holder.
Never really knew what it would’ve been like
You’re no longer there to break my fall*
No no I am not gonna cry. Something has been ringing in my ears since early this month, that nothing ever matters in the end.
Ever notice how brains act like a magnifying glass? That sometimes our brains multiply the goodness, or the badness of something, out of proportion? I believe something is never as bad as it seems, and sadly, never as good either. Even if you lose a leg (God forbid), in the end you’ll make peace with yourself, in the end it won’t matter anymore. Nothing matters.
I remember seeking for a place to hide, and cried my eyes out when I was 11. That was because I got 50 for a maths test. At that time it was a disaster. As soon as I saw that big, fat, 50 score scribbled on my test, I whispered to myself, “God, I’ve been so ungrateful…I’ve never thanked You every time I get a good score” (funny how an 11-year-old brain works, isn’t it?) then I hurried to my hiding place and cried.
Nope, don’t remember when test scores stopped to matter.
Ever since then many disasters came my way, all seemed huge and important at first, then faded away and lost their impacts. In the end nothing matters.
Oh, I’m not so foolish, so arrogant as not to admit that I once fell for you. I admit all that. I also admit these: sometimes I cried when you asked me out for a date then cancelled it. Sometimes I thought of you all day. Sometimes I missed you. There was a time when I thought your feelings for me were real. There was a time when I truly believed, Dear, when you held me close, gosh I don’t want to sound sappy here, but there was a time when I truly believed that you loved me. Sorry if I sound like a love-struck 16 year-old, but there was really a time when we had our moments. Hell, too many moments to list down, yet too few to leave a deep impact on me.
I admit all those.
And I’ll admit that they slowly, and steadily, fade away. Every once in a while I’ll think of you. Like every once in a while you’ll think of me. Then after some time has passed, I’ll be able to say that as much as I never matter to you, you never matter to me either.
When a lonely heart breaks, it’s the one that forsake
It’s the dream that we stole
And I’m missing you now.
And the fire that will roar :
there's a hole in my soul.
*Lyrics from ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls”, Bee Gees.Might not be accurate. Written here without the permission of copyright holder. All rights reserved by copyright holder.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
A NOVELIST? NO, NOT I
Where did I ever get the idea that I could actually write a book? Blogging religiously for three years does not mean I am able to spin a tale worth reading. Writing one half-finished short story a year does not make me a writer. Reading endless how-to-write books I can get my hands on does nothing to help me weave plots and create characters.
What is it that makes me do this stupid thing called one month noveling, while fully realising that I am not capable to invent even one name for my characters? Madness, sheer madness. I was mad: I thought I could concoct a whole new world with my computer, one I could run to whenever the world I lived in turned upside down. I thought doing what I loved would help me through life’s most boring days. And I thought I would be happier at the end of the month because I had another 50000 words inside my computer’s guts. Madness: I have surely turned mad.
Where did I ever get the idea that I could actually write a book?
Whenever I tried to sit down and draw a plot of my story, immediately I felt so insufficient and began gasping wildly for air. The plot that I finally churned out was so weak that I winced at the sight of it. I am sure that if a person in her right mind were unfortunate enough to come across this novel one day, she would hunt me down and do everything in her power to get a legal decree to banish me from nearing a computer again.
Plot? Did I say a plot? But my, there isn’t even one. I hid behind the excuse of making a sort of short-stories compilation, to conceal the painful fact that I cannot make a plot that stretches from the beginning to the end of the novel. I miserably tried to weave a line between those short stories, attempting to connect them and give them a better-defined significance. But the simple truth remains: if a thing is insignificant in the first place, then no matter how hard you try to blow it up, make it up, cover it up, it will stay insignificant.
And, and: I may crowd this blog with insignificant posts to my heart’s content, but a novel needs something more than that. It needs a plot, a significant reason of being. It needs characters who open their mouths and talk to the readers. It needs a story to tell: something to laugh at, or cry with, or get turned on by, or be scared of. The last thing it needs is a fussy author who tends to repeat herself every couple of sentences. Like everything else in life, it needs a beginning, a middle, and an end. The last thing it needs is a fussy author who tends to repeat herself every couple of sentences.
Where did I ever get the idea that I could actually write a book? What has possessed me all these years, making me think that the voices I hear inside my head whenever I am alone (while washing the car/contemplating my toes/fantasising about making love to D) belong to a novel worth writing? What has pushed me into actually sitting in front of the computer, crafting a dense 50,000-word nonsense out of thin air? How can you tell when you have gone preposterously mad?
Sitting at the computer now, inches away from that wretched compilation I will dare not call a novel even in the maddest day nearing the end of my life, I try to sort out my dreams like a woman with a good head on her shoulder. Just like the dreams of joining the research facility of the Indonesian Air Force has to go, it seems, the dream of becoming a novelist will have to hurl itself to Timbuctoo. I have too clear a logic, and too sceptical a mind, to allow myself such extravagant dreams.
But I won’t lie to you: once in awhile I still picture myself in that blue uniform. And be a woman with good head on her shoulder I might not: for here I am right now with my cup of coffee, typing away happily, concocting a new world I could run into when life gets mean, spinning insignificant sentences out of thin air, feeling exuberant and perfectly at home – pretending that I am writing a novel worth reading.
What is it that makes me do this stupid thing called one month noveling, while fully realising that I am not capable to invent even one name for my characters? Madness, sheer madness. I was mad: I thought I could concoct a whole new world with my computer, one I could run to whenever the world I lived in turned upside down. I thought doing what I loved would help me through life’s most boring days. And I thought I would be happier at the end of the month because I had another 50000 words inside my computer’s guts. Madness: I have surely turned mad.
Where did I ever get the idea that I could actually write a book?
Whenever I tried to sit down and draw a plot of my story, immediately I felt so insufficient and began gasping wildly for air. The plot that I finally churned out was so weak that I winced at the sight of it. I am sure that if a person in her right mind were unfortunate enough to come across this novel one day, she would hunt me down and do everything in her power to get a legal decree to banish me from nearing a computer again.
Plot? Did I say a plot? But my, there isn’t even one. I hid behind the excuse of making a sort of short-stories compilation, to conceal the painful fact that I cannot make a plot that stretches from the beginning to the end of the novel. I miserably tried to weave a line between those short stories, attempting to connect them and give them a better-defined significance. But the simple truth remains: if a thing is insignificant in the first place, then no matter how hard you try to blow it up, make it up, cover it up, it will stay insignificant.
And, and: I may crowd this blog with insignificant posts to my heart’s content, but a novel needs something more than that. It needs a plot, a significant reason of being. It needs characters who open their mouths and talk to the readers. It needs a story to tell: something to laugh at, or cry with, or get turned on by, or be scared of. The last thing it needs is a fussy author who tends to repeat herself every couple of sentences. Like everything else in life, it needs a beginning, a middle, and an end. The last thing it needs is a fussy author who tends to repeat herself every couple of sentences.
Where did I ever get the idea that I could actually write a book? What has possessed me all these years, making me think that the voices I hear inside my head whenever I am alone (while washing the car/contemplating my toes/fantasising about making love to D) belong to a novel worth writing? What has pushed me into actually sitting in front of the computer, crafting a dense 50,000-word nonsense out of thin air? How can you tell when you have gone preposterously mad?
Sitting at the computer now, inches away from that wretched compilation I will dare not call a novel even in the maddest day nearing the end of my life, I try to sort out my dreams like a woman with a good head on her shoulder. Just like the dreams of joining the research facility of the Indonesian Air Force has to go, it seems, the dream of becoming a novelist will have to hurl itself to Timbuctoo. I have too clear a logic, and too sceptical a mind, to allow myself such extravagant dreams.
But I won’t lie to you: once in awhile I still picture myself in that blue uniform. And be a woman with good head on her shoulder I might not: for here I am right now with my cup of coffee, typing away happily, concocting a new world I could run into when life gets mean, spinning insignificant sentences out of thin air, feeling exuberant and perfectly at home – pretending that I am writing a novel worth reading.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
ONE-MONTH NOVELIST
I blurted out 50,000 words in one month and got that icon on the right hand side of this blog as a gift.
It's not a novel, actually.
Will tell you more about it when I have more time (meaning I am able to nick working hours more conveniently, because I find it more enjoyable to blog during work time).
Meanwhile, do not just sit there gaping at your screen. Give me a congratulation kiss.
Ah there you go. Thank you.
Good girls.
And boy.
It's not a novel, actually.
Will tell you more about it when I have more time (meaning I am able to nick working hours more conveniently, because I find it more enjoyable to blog during work time).
Meanwhile, do not just sit there gaping at your screen. Give me a congratulation kiss.
Ah there you go. Thank you.
Good girls.
And boy.
Monday, November 21, 2005
ANOTHER RUBELLA SURVIVOR
I spent last week at home, shuffling between bed and the computer, burning in a 38.9 degree fever, nursing a splitting headache, breaking out in a scarlet rash. I was down with rubella, and all common senses seemed to be knocked out of my head for once. I wanted to stay in the shower all day and had my body washed down with a steady gush of ice-cold water, I wanted to take paracetamol and acetaminophen at the same time, I wanted to hunt down the person who had infected this disease to me and killed her with a stone.
I abandoned coffee for days, lost interest in chocolates, and began having a curious paracetamol fetish. I cursed a friend who had the nerve to text me saying “You have a whole week to play The Crims at home. You sure have a wonderful life,” and then without thinking went to the computer, connected to the internet, and started playing The Crims. All while looking and feeling a feverish scarlet monster.
Ah.
These are some new things I learnt during the week:
1) Wikipedia is a reliable source of information. Everything it says about rubella is true. I had all the symptoms listed there, I had exactly the medicine it said to be the only medication available for treatment prescribed for me by an internist. I began recuperating at exactly the time it said I would. So I wasn’t too far off the mark when I chose to put excerpts from Wikipedia into my scientific journal and my lecture materials. I shall do that more often in the future. But please do not tell my department head, because the poor man has enough problems on his hands.
2) I can tell that I am down with a rather serious illness when my brain starts pumping up really bright ideas to spend a week in bed: by studying electronic engineering fundamentals, or rereading modern physics, and writing a popular physics article about light’s dualism longhand. On the other hand, I can tell that I am on my way to a full recovery when the very same brains starts pumping up dreams about fried sausages and hot panadas, and really bright ideas to spend a week in bed: by reading Tintin (all 16 of them) and writing my novel longhand.
3) I found out that I actually loved writing that much: No matter how uncomfortable it was having to deal with a high fever and splitting headache and burning rash all over my body, I made it a point to work on that stupid 50,000-words novel I wanted to finish by the end of the month.
4) Writing alone has been my consolation, my therapy. But six hours into the first day in bed, I missed my lecture rooms already and I found out that I actually loved lecturing that much.
5) I am blessed with a job I love, something I wouldn’t mind to spend hours in, and sometimes it takes something as nasty as a rubella to make silly thick-headed me to realise just how lucky I am.
I abandoned coffee for days, lost interest in chocolates, and began having a curious paracetamol fetish. I cursed a friend who had the nerve to text me saying “You have a whole week to play The Crims at home. You sure have a wonderful life,” and then without thinking went to the computer, connected to the internet, and started playing The Crims. All while looking and feeling a feverish scarlet monster.
Ah.
These are some new things I learnt during the week:
1) Wikipedia is a reliable source of information. Everything it says about rubella is true. I had all the symptoms listed there, I had exactly the medicine it said to be the only medication available for treatment prescribed for me by an internist. I began recuperating at exactly the time it said I would. So I wasn’t too far off the mark when I chose to put excerpts from Wikipedia into my scientific journal and my lecture materials. I shall do that more often in the future. But please do not tell my department head, because the poor man has enough problems on his hands.
2) I can tell that I am down with a rather serious illness when my brain starts pumping up really bright ideas to spend a week in bed: by studying electronic engineering fundamentals, or rereading modern physics, and writing a popular physics article about light’s dualism longhand. On the other hand, I can tell that I am on my way to a full recovery when the very same brains starts pumping up dreams about fried sausages and hot panadas, and really bright ideas to spend a week in bed: by reading Tintin (all 16 of them) and writing my novel longhand.
3) I found out that I actually loved writing that much: No matter how uncomfortable it was having to deal with a high fever and splitting headache and burning rash all over my body, I made it a point to work on that stupid 50,000-words novel I wanted to finish by the end of the month.
4) Writing alone has been my consolation, my therapy. But six hours into the first day in bed, I missed my lecture rooms already and I found out that I actually loved lecturing that much.
5) I am blessed with a job I love, something I wouldn’t mind to spend hours in, and sometimes it takes something as nasty as a rubella to make silly thick-headed me to realise just how lucky I am.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
ON ONE OF YOUR POEMS
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I merely spend a lot of time in front of my computer this holiday, trying to churn out a novel, actually. You know that I am no resourceful person, and my idea of getting inspirations for the novel is to grope around my hard disk for half an hour everyday.
Yes, you heard it right. Much as I’d like to say that I find inspiration during my solitaire walks through a narrow beaten path away from my neighbourhood, or during an enchanting conversation with a charming stranger over the internet, the fact remains that there is nothing romantic with my idea of seeking an inspiration.
Anyway.
As I groped around earlier today, I found this poem you gave me a long time ago. As I remember it was inside a black floppy you put on my desk one night, and on the label you had written “Cream and Stuff and Everything Nice.”
During that time, you and I exchanged floppy disks almost every night. I was showing you my mediocre short stories, and you showed me not only your stories both in English and Indonesian, but also my favorite: your beautiful poetry, written in impeccable English, ingenious craft I had never imagined could be spun by a native Indonesian. One day I gave you a disk full of my favorite poems, because I didn’t have any more short stories to show you. (I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t quite a productive writer as you were.) The poems included works of Juana Ines de La Cruz, and WB Yeats, and on the label of the disk I had neatly written “Cream and Stuff and Everything Nice.”
So finding a black floppy on my desk with a label that bore the exactly same words kinda intrigued me. I stared at your slanting handwriting, pondering what was your idea of “cream” and “stuff” and “everything nice.”
And here was I what found inside that floppy:
AN ENIGMA
Might it be a sin, august damsel
Myriad moves fulfilled to flee conjugal carousal?
Believing it will last, being beguiled it’s a must
Colourless life looms lurking to lam me to dust
Alleviating kisses, damsel, much I long for
Offered blissful bosom for my head to anchor
Crystalline eyes like those in days of yore
Entirely engulfed me bringing forth sweet sore
Wonderful tigress of one and twenty
Especially born in the eighth lunation
Apostlebird sang in the annus mirabilis of four and seventy
Satisfactorily educated with Science of Forces inclination
Enthusiastically yet pursuing the path of Muse
M.A, 28/6/2002
A hint: read consecutively first letter of the first line,
second letter of the second line, etc.
With my limited English, at first I didn’t quite get your meaning. All I knew was this: you had strived to put not only my name, but also every personal fact of mine into this beautiful jewel of poetry. I gaped at it for a long time
When you called later that night, asking whether I had read the poem, I giggled nervously saying yes, I have, and by the way, how many girls have you ever written poetry for?
And your replies were ‘where have you been all my life’ and ‘you should have crossed my path sooner’ and I thought about roaming the earth for the rest of my life thinking of endless ‘what-ifs’.
Do you remember all these?
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I was merely groping around my computer’s guts looking for inspirations for my novel when I stumbled upon your words.
What do I know?
Reading your words is a much enjoyable way to get inspired compared to long solitaire walks, and an enchanting conversation with a charming stranger over the internet. Reading your words reminds me to the feeling I got when I was much younger, when I had just woken up one morning and remembered that it was the start of a long holiday. It is comparable to listening to Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and Canon in D and Air in G String and Moonlight Sonata. And actually that is what I am doing now, listening to all those, feeling happy and serene that we had the chance to meet each other and do things as stupid as exchanging floppy disk every night.
Do you know?
I have a folder here inside my computer, full of your stories and poetry, and I think I am gonna print the poems you wrote for me and stick them on my desk so that I could look at them from time to time, especially when I am down, which happens a lot of times lately.
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I was merely groping around my computer’s guts looking for inspirations for my novel when I stumbled upon your words.
And suddenly I thought of you, and the way things that could go wrong, always would.
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I merely spend a lot of time in front of my computer this holiday, trying to churn out a novel, actually. You know that I am no resourceful person, and my idea of getting inspirations for the novel is to grope around my hard disk for half an hour everyday.
Yes, you heard it right. Much as I’d like to say that I find inspiration during my solitaire walks through a narrow beaten path away from my neighbourhood, or during an enchanting conversation with a charming stranger over the internet, the fact remains that there is nothing romantic with my idea of seeking an inspiration.
Anyway.
As I groped around earlier today, I found this poem you gave me a long time ago. As I remember it was inside a black floppy you put on my desk one night, and on the label you had written “Cream and Stuff and Everything Nice.”
During that time, you and I exchanged floppy disks almost every night. I was showing you my mediocre short stories, and you showed me not only your stories both in English and Indonesian, but also my favorite: your beautiful poetry, written in impeccable English, ingenious craft I had never imagined could be spun by a native Indonesian. One day I gave you a disk full of my favorite poems, because I didn’t have any more short stories to show you. (I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t quite a productive writer as you were.) The poems included works of Juana Ines de La Cruz, and WB Yeats, and on the label of the disk I had neatly written “Cream and Stuff and Everything Nice.”
So finding a black floppy on my desk with a label that bore the exactly same words kinda intrigued me. I stared at your slanting handwriting, pondering what was your idea of “cream” and “stuff” and “everything nice.”
And here was I what found inside that floppy:
Might it be a sin, august damsel
Myriad moves fulfilled to flee conjugal carousal?
Believing it will last, being beguiled it’s a must
Colourless life looms lurking to lam me to dust
Alleviating kisses, damsel, much I long for
Offered blissful bosom for my head to anchor
Crystalline eyes like those in days of yore
Entirely engulfed me bringing forth sweet sore
Wonderful tigress of one and twenty
Especially born in the eighth lunation
Apostlebird sang in the annus mirabilis of four and seventy
Satisfactorily educated with Science of Forces inclination
Enthusiastically yet pursuing the path of Muse
M.A, 28/6/2002
A hint: read consecutively first letter of the first line,
second letter of the second line, etc.
With my limited English, at first I didn’t quite get your meaning. All I knew was this: you had strived to put not only my name, but also every personal fact of mine into this beautiful jewel of poetry. I gaped at it for a long time
When you called later that night, asking whether I had read the poem, I giggled nervously saying yes, I have, and by the way, how many girls have you ever written poetry for?
And your replies were ‘where have you been all my life’ and ‘you should have crossed my path sooner’ and I thought about roaming the earth for the rest of my life thinking of endless ‘what-ifs’.
Do you remember all these?
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I was merely groping around my computer’s guts looking for inspirations for my novel when I stumbled upon your words.
What do I know?
Reading your words is a much enjoyable way to get inspired compared to long solitaire walks, and an enchanting conversation with a charming stranger over the internet. Reading your words reminds me to the feeling I got when I was much younger, when I had just woken up one morning and remembered that it was the start of a long holiday. It is comparable to listening to Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and Canon in D and Air in G String and Moonlight Sonata. And actually that is what I am doing now, listening to all those, feeling happy and serene that we had the chance to meet each other and do things as stupid as exchanging floppy disk every night.
Do you know?
I have a folder here inside my computer, full of your stories and poetry, and I think I am gonna print the poems you wrote for me and stick them on my desk so that I could look at them from time to time, especially when I am down, which happens a lot of times lately.
Dear Poet:
I heard that you were still alive, still working at the same place. I haven’t thought about you for quite some time, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t either.
I was merely groping around my computer’s guts looking for inspirations for my novel when I stumbled upon your words.
And suddenly I thought of you, and the way things that could go wrong, always would.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
THAT WRITING THERAPY
I have long known that writing is a good therapy for my unbalanced soul. When my girlfriends chirp away happily about their successful raids of a certain department store, I usually note that I am no stranger to that happy feeling that flusters their cheeks and raises their voices that teeny bit higher. Only that happy feeling, for me, derives not from finding the perfect pairs of jeans (oh where art thou?) or that perfect tone of eyeshadow. It derives from hurting my butt by sitting in front of the computer for at least one hour, and whipping out a piece of writing that I call perfect. (The one that I call perfect is not necessarily what my English teacher called perfect.)
It takes a disciplined mind to be able to write everyday, boy, don't I know it. A long time ago I prescribed myself a page a day to ease my mental illness, and I can never fulfill that. I simply do not possess the teeniest bit of discipline to save my life.
Now that the National Novel Writing Month is here, I wonder whether I'll finally get down to that one page a day. Or 1,677 words a day, to be exact, because I'd have to finish 50,000 words in 30 days. That is a lot more than a page a day.
It's already November 1st, the first day, and the day is almost over, and I still haven't written anything resembling a novel. I don't have any plots in mind either.
Still I am willing to jump headlong into this writing month blindfolded. Will I or will I not be able to string 50,000 words together by the end of the month, I do not know.
But I know that the simple act of trying will do me good, so good that by the end of the month, I will emerge with a slightly mended soul.
It takes a disciplined mind to be able to write everyday, boy, don't I know it. A long time ago I prescribed myself a page a day to ease my mental illness, and I can never fulfill that. I simply do not possess the teeniest bit of discipline to save my life.
Now that the National Novel Writing Month is here, I wonder whether I'll finally get down to that one page a day. Or 1,677 words a day, to be exact, because I'd have to finish 50,000 words in 30 days. That is a lot more than a page a day.
It's already November 1st, the first day, and the day is almost over, and I still haven't written anything resembling a novel. I don't have any plots in mind either.
Still I am willing to jump headlong into this writing month blindfolded. Will I or will I not be able to string 50,000 words together by the end of the month, I do not know.
But I know that the simple act of trying will do me good, so good that by the end of the month, I will emerge with a slightly mended soul.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
ON HOW THINGS ARE BITTERSWEET
(I will do justice to do the good piano recital some two weeks ago, I will write about it properly, well, kinda, at least.)
In anticipation of the piano recital, I did some very strange preparation: I began practising the piano again. Other people in their right minds would reserve tickets in advance, or tell their folks they’d be coming home late because the event would last for about two hours starting from 7 PM, or perhaps start to listen to Schubert because the recital would be on his works, but I am not a person with a right mind. I did call ahead to inquiry about the tickets, but I did nothing else as the above. What I did was playing C major up and down the piano several times, several nights before the recital. I played it the way I did during the last few years of my studying the piano: firstly in 4 octaves up and down, then the ‘third-apart’, the dominant-septime in all variations, the ‘mixed-motion’, the white-black, and finally, the cadence in three positions. I winced at the realisation of losing my speed and power, how long will it take to gain those back? I cannot afford three-hour practice nowadays, not because I am busy, but because my heart isn’t that sturdy anymore. Nowadays I am much more fragile when faced with my own weakness. Playing the piano well is of course one such weakness, and with each wrong note, each missed beat, bitterness rises from the back of my throat and sticks stubbornly on my palate.
So why I began practising again, I really don’t know. Maybe it was to drill into my brains the fact that I wasn’t good enough to play, wasn’t a perfectionist enough to be able to sit unmoved at the piano for three hours at one go, so that during the recital I wouldn’t be too jealous of the performers’ skills. I am, after all, so inadequate as to be compared to them. The idea was maybe to remind myself not to waste precious time agonising over “what-ifs” and “if-onlys”, because there really is no what-if nor if-only. I am much too inadequate to even say what-if.
The night before the recital was spent practising Heller, that sweet tune I’ve been meaning to memorise. After several tries, I told myself that whatever the performance was going to be like the next day, the practising behind it was undoubtedly painful. And that to the best of my knowledge, there are very few things more painful than practising the piano.
The day of the recital was spent giddily; I was about as excited as a young child being promised a big block of chocolate. E asked what I’d do in between the after-office hour and the time the concert began. Because my office-hours ended at around 4 PM, and the recital wasn’t until 7, that was why, and I told him I was gonna stick my butt around the office and find something to snack on, no I wasn’t gonna go home because there was a killer traffic jam outside and I didn’t want anything to dampen my excitement for the day.
Driving to the place only took me a little over 15 minutes, but it did take me quite some time to find a parking space. I was quite surprised to find that E was already there. Turned out that it wasn’t the only nice surprise for the rest of the evening.
As we had our dinner of the surprisingly good fried rice (was it really good, was I just so hopelessly hungry both for food and a good company?), I caught a glimpse of a familiar face. A nicely sculpted face, belonging to a fair-skinned young man, that I must have seen somewhere before. The person in question was happily tucking into his plate while having casual chat with his friends, and it suddenly struck me: this was of course Stanley, the Stanley that amazed me some months back, when he appeared alongside Ananda Sukarlan during a piano concert. He was Ananda’s page-turner then, and as you can read from the piece I wrote about that event,I was so dumbfounded to witness such a young person levelled with Ananda’s playing.
Upon finishing our rice and tea, we dashed to the auditorium door and were greeted by the ticket seller who was surprisingly kind enough to ask me: “Student or adult ticket?” I fought back a laugh: I couldn’t be mistaken as a student. Every day, and I mean every single day, students in their 20’s address me “Ma’am”, which in Indonesian also means “Mother.” A student, oh no, not I. I have many children and they are already over 17. The next thing happened was finding the best seats were still available, oh, like, wow.
When the recital began, who would appear as the page-turner if not Stanley? This time I didn’t dwell on stupid thoughts as “how could such a young person be that well-read in classical music”, “I was nothing when I was his age” et cetera, because hey, I am nothing even today. Days of practising the piano before the concert really paid off: I was more focused into the music. The performers were an Indonesian prominent pianist who I always thought looked really cocky, and a Japanese one who looked as humble as the other cocky. It was a 4-hand recital, and I was curious on how two people, four hands, could move perfectly in time with each other at exact, split-second beats. I know good friends can finish each other’s sentences, but the idea is still bizarre. I for one never let myself be close enough to someone as to be able to finish off his sentence. I used to share a bed with N, but I didn’t know how his mind worked. So I sat there gaping for the good part of the evening, astonished at how Iswargia Sudarno read Miwako Fukushi’s mind and she read his mind, and Stanley read both their minds.
It was a show of pure talent and sheer hard work, surely neither of the pianists used my approach to piano exercising: feeling intimidated at the very sight of a piano, do quick scales and finish off with a Heller or Bach. The familiar bitter taste still rose from the back of my throat, and found its way to my palate, but I no longer saw the point of kicking myself for being an inadequate piano student. I am, after all, not able to practise 3 hours a day, let alone eight, as clearly done religiously by these Gods. They played Schubert’s works impeccably, from the softest pianissimo assai to the loudest fortissimo assai, from andante to andantino to moderato to allegro to presto, from dolce leggiero to tempo di Marcia, each note distinguished from the other, each Adagio sostenuto clearly conveyed, each Allegro maestoso beautifully articulated. When the auditorium broke in a loud applause, that bitterness on my palate had almost pushed its way to my eyes. Good thing I’m good at fighting back tears of jealousy.
During the ride home I told E how I noticed how Stanley turned the page too early sometime, how Fukushi smiled and mouthed “Not yet!” and played the rest of her bars from memory, and how impossible it was for a mere human being to memorize such long music passages.
“I don’t think it impossible,” he said.
“Oh it is,” I insisted. “You might learn by heart the story of a Harry Potter book in detail, but can you tell me how many commas are on the first page? Memorising classical music notes are like that, that verbatim.”
But that bitterness on my palate hadn’t dissolved completely, they ticked all over my mouth at the late realization that E was right: it wasn’t impossible for anybody to memorize long music passages, it was impossible for me.
When I dropped him off near his office I was actually saddened by a nice evening ended so soon. Everything had been as cotton-candy sweet, except for that familiar taste inside my mouth, but it didn’t change anything. Anything good is always accompanied by something bitter, it seems to me. My inadequacy makes me appreciate the good music more intimately, and for all bitterness it may take, I am willing to endure more nights inside that auditorium, sitting gaping and wondering what-ifs, cursing the Music Gods for their overabundant talents, applauding and fighting back tears of jealousy.
I guess you won’t know what sweetness is if you never know how bitterness tastes like.
In anticipation of the piano recital, I did some very strange preparation: I began practising the piano again. Other people in their right minds would reserve tickets in advance, or tell their folks they’d be coming home late because the event would last for about two hours starting from 7 PM, or perhaps start to listen to Schubert because the recital would be on his works, but I am not a person with a right mind. I did call ahead to inquiry about the tickets, but I did nothing else as the above. What I did was playing C major up and down the piano several times, several nights before the recital. I played it the way I did during the last few years of my studying the piano: firstly in 4 octaves up and down, then the ‘third-apart’, the dominant-septime in all variations, the ‘mixed-motion’, the white-black, and finally, the cadence in three positions. I winced at the realisation of losing my speed and power, how long will it take to gain those back? I cannot afford three-hour practice nowadays, not because I am busy, but because my heart isn’t that sturdy anymore. Nowadays I am much more fragile when faced with my own weakness. Playing the piano well is of course one such weakness, and with each wrong note, each missed beat, bitterness rises from the back of my throat and sticks stubbornly on my palate.
So why I began practising again, I really don’t know. Maybe it was to drill into my brains the fact that I wasn’t good enough to play, wasn’t a perfectionist enough to be able to sit unmoved at the piano for three hours at one go, so that during the recital I wouldn’t be too jealous of the performers’ skills. I am, after all, so inadequate as to be compared to them. The idea was maybe to remind myself not to waste precious time agonising over “what-ifs” and “if-onlys”, because there really is no what-if nor if-only. I am much too inadequate to even say what-if.
The night before the recital was spent practising Heller, that sweet tune I’ve been meaning to memorise. After several tries, I told myself that whatever the performance was going to be like the next day, the practising behind it was undoubtedly painful. And that to the best of my knowledge, there are very few things more painful than practising the piano.
The day of the recital was spent giddily; I was about as excited as a young child being promised a big block of chocolate. E asked what I’d do in between the after-office hour and the time the concert began. Because my office-hours ended at around 4 PM, and the recital wasn’t until 7, that was why, and I told him I was gonna stick my butt around the office and find something to snack on, no I wasn’t gonna go home because there was a killer traffic jam outside and I didn’t want anything to dampen my excitement for the day.
Driving to the place only took me a little over 15 minutes, but it did take me quite some time to find a parking space. I was quite surprised to find that E was already there. Turned out that it wasn’t the only nice surprise for the rest of the evening.
As we had our dinner of the surprisingly good fried rice (was it really good, was I just so hopelessly hungry both for food and a good company?), I caught a glimpse of a familiar face. A nicely sculpted face, belonging to a fair-skinned young man, that I must have seen somewhere before. The person in question was happily tucking into his plate while having casual chat with his friends, and it suddenly struck me: this was of course Stanley, the Stanley that amazed me some months back, when he appeared alongside Ananda Sukarlan during a piano concert. He was Ananda’s page-turner then, and as you can read from the piece I wrote about that event,I was so dumbfounded to witness such a young person levelled with Ananda’s playing.
Upon finishing our rice and tea, we dashed to the auditorium door and were greeted by the ticket seller who was surprisingly kind enough to ask me: “Student or adult ticket?” I fought back a laugh: I couldn’t be mistaken as a student. Every day, and I mean every single day, students in their 20’s address me “Ma’am”, which in Indonesian also means “Mother.” A student, oh no, not I. I have many children and they are already over 17. The next thing happened was finding the best seats were still available, oh, like, wow.
When the recital began, who would appear as the page-turner if not Stanley? This time I didn’t dwell on stupid thoughts as “how could such a young person be that well-read in classical music”, “I was nothing when I was his age” et cetera, because hey, I am nothing even today. Days of practising the piano before the concert really paid off: I was more focused into the music. The performers were an Indonesian prominent pianist who I always thought looked really cocky, and a Japanese one who looked as humble as the other cocky. It was a 4-hand recital, and I was curious on how two people, four hands, could move perfectly in time with each other at exact, split-second beats. I know good friends can finish each other’s sentences, but the idea is still bizarre. I for one never let myself be close enough to someone as to be able to finish off his sentence. I used to share a bed with N, but I didn’t know how his mind worked. So I sat there gaping for the good part of the evening, astonished at how Iswargia Sudarno read Miwako Fukushi’s mind and she read his mind, and Stanley read both their minds.
It was a show of pure talent and sheer hard work, surely neither of the pianists used my approach to piano exercising: feeling intimidated at the very sight of a piano, do quick scales and finish off with a Heller or Bach. The familiar bitter taste still rose from the back of my throat, and found its way to my palate, but I no longer saw the point of kicking myself for being an inadequate piano student. I am, after all, not able to practise 3 hours a day, let alone eight, as clearly done religiously by these Gods. They played Schubert’s works impeccably, from the softest pianissimo assai to the loudest fortissimo assai, from andante to andantino to moderato to allegro to presto, from dolce leggiero to tempo di Marcia, each note distinguished from the other, each Adagio sostenuto clearly conveyed, each Allegro maestoso beautifully articulated. When the auditorium broke in a loud applause, that bitterness on my palate had almost pushed its way to my eyes. Good thing I’m good at fighting back tears of jealousy.
During the ride home I told E how I noticed how Stanley turned the page too early sometime, how Fukushi smiled and mouthed “Not yet!” and played the rest of her bars from memory, and how impossible it was for a mere human being to memorize such long music passages.
“I don’t think it impossible,” he said.
“Oh it is,” I insisted. “You might learn by heart the story of a Harry Potter book in detail, but can you tell me how many commas are on the first page? Memorising classical music notes are like that, that verbatim.”
But that bitterness on my palate hadn’t dissolved completely, they ticked all over my mouth at the late realization that E was right: it wasn’t impossible for anybody to memorize long music passages, it was impossible for me.
When I dropped him off near his office I was actually saddened by a nice evening ended so soon. Everything had been as cotton-candy sweet, except for that familiar taste inside my mouth, but it didn’t change anything. Anything good is always accompanied by something bitter, it seems to me. My inadequacy makes me appreciate the good music more intimately, and for all bitterness it may take, I am willing to endure more nights inside that auditorium, sitting gaping and wondering what-ifs, cursing the Music Gods for their overabundant talents, applauding and fighting back tears of jealousy.
I guess you won’t know what sweetness is if you never know how bitterness tastes like.
Friday, September 30, 2005
I AM STILL ALIVE
Though admittedly it doesn't feel that way because I haven't been writing for a long while. Too long for my standard. Hell I miss writing. I wanted to write about last night's 4-hand piano recital E & I went to, how that Stanley kiddo was up on the stage again doing page-turning for the pianists, how amazingly heart-breaking it was to witness such great talents at show. How miserable I felt for having actually taken years and years of piano lessons and yet not able to actually give a goddamn good performance. How intimidating it was, how depressing, that I almost needed to console myself by looking down to my chest and count my blessing blessings. How the female pianist kept wiping her hands and the keyboards using a hand towel when she had 1 second free time between notes. How good it was to be at a concert after such a long time. How this and how that. But it's been too long since the last time I wrote something, my mind is too bogged down with too many details that I want to put into this blank space.
I won't be able to think straight while trying to sort out these details. And I don't really fancy going into great details anyway.
I just miss writing and I want to make a note of how happy I was last night. And that I forgot something rather important that no matter how many times I look down to my chest, I still feel like kicking myself for being so stupid.
I won't be able to think straight while trying to sort out these details. And I don't really fancy going into great details anyway.
I just miss writing and I want to make a note of how happy I was last night. And that I forgot something rather important that no matter how many times I look down to my chest, I still feel like kicking myself for being so stupid.
Friday, September 16, 2005
DO YOU THINK THIS IS TRUE?
A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. -- Jane Austen (1775 - 1817)
Pardon me. But I really think what the lady said is correct.
Pardon me. But I really think what the lady said is correct.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
ON WHY MY NAME IS YOURS
The first thing that attracted me to you was the way you would stop working sometimes and just stare at blankness for not more than 10 seconds. Short enough for most people not to notice it: definitely long enough for me to take full notice of it.
You look so serene and peaceful at those times, and I have a soft spot for people with serene looks. I can’t remember how soon after meeting you that I adopted ‘Peaceful’ as my very own name. All I can remember is this: I’ve always been longing for people to call me by that look in your face.
The other thing that attracts me to you is of course the way your sarcasm drive right into my chest. Yours is sarcasm at its best: perfect diction delivered in succulent voice through luscious lips. You told me once that I was dangerously too full of sarcastic remarks, and I wondered whether you were only being sarcastic at that time. Did you know? That comment of yours was the magic word that turned my panty warmly wet.
The first thing, and the only thing, that stops me from putting my heart onto your palm is the realization that your heart is buried too deep inside your developed breasts. I know it will be hard for you to take out your heart and put it onto my palm in return.
Alas, don’t I know that. For my heart is buried deep behind my developed breasts as well, and like they say, it always takes one to know one.
You look so serene and peaceful at those times, and I have a soft spot for people with serene looks. I can’t remember how soon after meeting you that I adopted ‘Peaceful’ as my very own name. All I can remember is this: I’ve always been longing for people to call me by that look in your face.
The other thing that attracts me to you is of course the way your sarcasm drive right into my chest. Yours is sarcasm at its best: perfect diction delivered in succulent voice through luscious lips. You told me once that I was dangerously too full of sarcastic remarks, and I wondered whether you were only being sarcastic at that time. Did you know? That comment of yours was the magic word that turned my panty warmly wet.
The first thing, and the only thing, that stops me from putting my heart onto your palm is the realization that your heart is buried too deep inside your developed breasts. I know it will be hard for you to take out your heart and put it onto my palm in return.
Alas, don’t I know that. For my heart is buried deep behind my developed breasts as well, and like they say, it always takes one to know one.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
MORE LESBIAN SEX SCENES: ONLY IF YOU DO IT WITH ME
As a birthday gift last month, somebody gave me a book titled: “No Plots? No Problem! A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing A Novel in 30 Days”, written by Chris Baty, the founder of the National Novel Writing Month a.k.a NaNoWriMo.
I had known about NaNoWriMo for quite some time before I got the book, but it wasn’t until I got the book that I actually searched the net for it and found out that NaNoWriMo was quite a well-organized geeky thing. The official website, nanowrimo.org, looks professionally designed, with an active forum and all, and the geek in me slobbers at the geeky “personalized word-count progress bar” they put at the site.
Simply put, to participate in NaNoWriMo you must register yourself in the website, start writing in the 1st of November and stop writing in the 30th, and submit your work to the site where they’ll verify the word-count of your novel. They define the minimum length of the novel as 50,000 words, which at first I thought was massive.
But, but: I was so intrigued to rise up to that challenge. Every single synapse in my brains begs me to sign up for it. I began seeing “signs” of why I should take this challenge. The first one of course, is getting that book for my birthday. Had I not gotten it, I wouldn’t have searched the net for it. Had I not searched the net for it, I wouldn’t have known that I wasn’t too late to sign up for it. In fact, the registration begins in October, a full month from now. I could use the extra days before registration to brush up my deteriorating English, and gather my long-lost Muses.
A quick count on my part reveals that to be able to come up with 50,000 words in a month, I must write down about 1,670 words a day. That would equal about 4 pages of font-12, single-spaced characters, and I suddenly saw the irony of it. When I started blogging more than 2 years ago, at first I always did free-writing exercise. But shortly after that, I began limiting my word-count to 700, because I thought a decent post shouldn’t be too long. Look at me now: I cannot write at length anymore. I am forever busy trying to keep things short. Smarty-pants forgets that she wants to write a novel someday, and to be able to write a novel, one must be able to string more than 25 sentences in one go.
The other sign I remember with fondness was when somebody asked me what gifts I got for my birthday, and I mentioned that book. He quickly said I should begin writing my novel, and before I could come up with my usual lame excuse, he cut me short by saying: “I know exactly what you’re gonna say now. You’re gonna say you can’t write at length or devise a plot and you can’t make a character.” Smarty-pants was instantaneously down on the floor: feeling ashamed at the foolish excuse she always gives to everybody challenging her to write.
Really, how much more foolish can I get? I can’t really say I’m too busy to write, because my job is blissfully one of those heavenly jobs in which I can work at my own pace. And according to Chris Baty, the best time to produce a novel is when you are busy anyway, so that writing becomes your sanctuary instead of a dreadful chore.
So you see, I am really, really tempted to write a novel in November. I know it will be lousy: no good novel is written in 30 days. I know it might be full of lesbian sex-scenes, not because I am one, but because I am not one. I know it might be full of murders because I dream of murders every weekend. I know it will be very, very hard and I might throw my towel midway through it. (To my standard, a 50,000-word essay is HUGE, the longest I’ve written so far is a 28,894-word compilation). But the underachiever in me bawls violently for a chance to achieve something this year.
I know this is something I really want to do, and something I’ll look back in delight ten years down the path. And it might propel me to write a proper novel, which deserves a cover designed by D as he promised.
The problem is, I really don’t think I can bear to travel the long journey alone. That is why I am begging you to come with me. The best thing that you can do for me is of course to sign yourself up for the journey as well, so that I can curse every step of the way with a fellow would-be 30-day novelist. --
-- But I realise that not everybody is a masochist like myself. So I’ll do the driving. You can sit on the passenger seat and DJ my CD player. I just need someone there when I stop every 50 miles to puke. I just need someone there to help me navigate along the woods. I just need a constant companion to share a kiss at the end of the journey, whether it is fully 50,000 or merely 50 words. Knowing me, you know I’d welcome a lesbian or a straight kiss, but here I am secretly hoping for a three-some orgy. Yes, I would like the two of you in my car.
Please get in now. I am begging you.
I had known about NaNoWriMo for quite some time before I got the book, but it wasn’t until I got the book that I actually searched the net for it and found out that NaNoWriMo was quite a well-organized geeky thing. The official website, nanowrimo.org, looks professionally designed, with an active forum and all, and the geek in me slobbers at the geeky “personalized word-count progress bar” they put at the site.
Simply put, to participate in NaNoWriMo you must register yourself in the website, start writing in the 1st of November and stop writing in the 30th, and submit your work to the site where they’ll verify the word-count of your novel. They define the minimum length of the novel as 50,000 words, which at first I thought was massive.
But, but: I was so intrigued to rise up to that challenge. Every single synapse in my brains begs me to sign up for it. I began seeing “signs” of why I should take this challenge. The first one of course, is getting that book for my birthday. Had I not gotten it, I wouldn’t have searched the net for it. Had I not searched the net for it, I wouldn’t have known that I wasn’t too late to sign up for it. In fact, the registration begins in October, a full month from now. I could use the extra days before registration to brush up my deteriorating English, and gather my long-lost Muses.
A quick count on my part reveals that to be able to come up with 50,000 words in a month, I must write down about 1,670 words a day. That would equal about 4 pages of font-12, single-spaced characters, and I suddenly saw the irony of it. When I started blogging more than 2 years ago, at first I always did free-writing exercise. But shortly after that, I began limiting my word-count to 700, because I thought a decent post shouldn’t be too long. Look at me now: I cannot write at length anymore. I am forever busy trying to keep things short. Smarty-pants forgets that she wants to write a novel someday, and to be able to write a novel, one must be able to string more than 25 sentences in one go.
The other sign I remember with fondness was when somebody asked me what gifts I got for my birthday, and I mentioned that book. He quickly said I should begin writing my novel, and before I could come up with my usual lame excuse, he cut me short by saying: “I know exactly what you’re gonna say now. You’re gonna say you can’t write at length or devise a plot and you can’t make a character.” Smarty-pants was instantaneously down on the floor: feeling ashamed at the foolish excuse she always gives to everybody challenging her to write.
Really, how much more foolish can I get? I can’t really say I’m too busy to write, because my job is blissfully one of those heavenly jobs in which I can work at my own pace. And according to Chris Baty, the best time to produce a novel is when you are busy anyway, so that writing becomes your sanctuary instead of a dreadful chore.
So you see, I am really, really tempted to write a novel in November. I know it will be lousy: no good novel is written in 30 days. I know it might be full of lesbian sex-scenes, not because I am one, but because I am not one. I know it might be full of murders because I dream of murders every weekend. I know it will be very, very hard and I might throw my towel midway through it. (To my standard, a 50,000-word essay is HUGE, the longest I’ve written so far is a 28,894-word compilation). But the underachiever in me bawls violently for a chance to achieve something this year.
I know this is something I really want to do, and something I’ll look back in delight ten years down the path. And it might propel me to write a proper novel, which deserves a cover designed by D as he promised.
The problem is, I really don’t think I can bear to travel the long journey alone. That is why I am begging you to come with me. The best thing that you can do for me is of course to sign yourself up for the journey as well, so that I can curse every step of the way with a fellow would-be 30-day novelist. --
-- But I realise that not everybody is a masochist like myself. So I’ll do the driving. You can sit on the passenger seat and DJ my CD player. I just need someone there when I stop every 50 miles to puke. I just need someone there to help me navigate along the woods. I just need a constant companion to share a kiss at the end of the journey, whether it is fully 50,000 or merely 50 words. Knowing me, you know I’d welcome a lesbian or a straight kiss, but here I am secretly hoping for a three-some orgy. Yes, I would like the two of you in my car.
Please get in now. I am begging you.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
WAYS TO GET HURT
There are more than one way to get hurt: I suddenly found a new one just by acknowledging your pain. Like all people of all walks of life, I am amazed that you still manage to stand on two feet, still actually go to the office everyday, still find time to play, all the while nursing a gaping wound as big as your own heart. (If I were in your shoes, Dear, I'd have dropped dead two years ago).
There are more than one way to get hurt: I suddenly found another one, when I realized I could do nothing to help you. Standing on the shore and watching you slowly drowning in the sea, pains me so much. So much that I wriggle like you wouldn't believe, because all powers within me cannot convey what I want the most: I want to reach out a hand and yank you out of the sea.
As you slowly mention that my help isn't needed, I slowly realize that I just found out, Dearest, yet another way to get hurt.
There are more than one way to get hurt: I suddenly found another one, when I realized I could do nothing to help you. Standing on the shore and watching you slowly drowning in the sea, pains me so much. So much that I wriggle like you wouldn't believe, because all powers within me cannot convey what I want the most: I want to reach out a hand and yank you out of the sea.
As you slowly mention that my help isn't needed, I slowly realize that I just found out, Dearest, yet another way to get hurt.
Friday, August 26, 2005
BIRTHDAY IS AS BIRTHDAY DOES
If all were fair, I shouldn’t have been let live another day past 30. Or past 20. Or past 8. Or another day past whatever age I started turning into a menacing human being who degraded people who were too cheerful. And people who honestly thought their English was perfect while actually saying “its mean” when what they really meant was “it means.” And people who talk too much and smile too much baring their decaying teeth. God have mercy on me.
But all weren’t fair, like everything in the world, so here I am, fully exist past 30, a menacing human being still, degrading people with fake smiles and bad English and dirty teeth still.
If all were fair, I would have gotten a daughter for my birthday, a menacing tiny feminist with a flair for calculus, straight teeth unlike her mother’s, perfect English, and a deep passion for writing and fighting with her mother.
But all weren’t fair, so I got books, earrings, and chocolates instead. “You like my presents?” was what N asked, and I tearfully said, “You always know what I want.” Of course I know that he didn’t know what I wanted. All weren’t fair: that loving patriarch always thought I wanted a son.
If all were fair, I would have slept through that morning and the morning after and the morning after, I would’ve slept all through eternity; therefore preventing more people getting hurt by my menacing words and judgments.
But all weren’t fair, like everything else in this world. Yours truly is still alive.
So here’s a warning to everybody who crosses my path: please save yourself from degradation. Do not display to my face your bad English, your dirty and/or protruding teeth, your too-cheerful disgusting smile, and your inability to stop yourself from talking about such a pathetically unimportant thing as your life story.
This year, I will forgive you for all your goblokness as long as you don’t be too goblok to display it to my face. And you should forgive me for – yes, for having lived past another year.
But all weren’t fair, like everything in the world, so here I am, fully exist past 30, a menacing human being still, degrading people with fake smiles and bad English and dirty teeth still.
If all were fair, I would have gotten a daughter for my birthday, a menacing tiny feminist with a flair for calculus, straight teeth unlike her mother’s, perfect English, and a deep passion for writing and fighting with her mother.
But all weren’t fair, so I got books, earrings, and chocolates instead. “You like my presents?” was what N asked, and I tearfully said, “You always know what I want.” Of course I know that he didn’t know what I wanted. All weren’t fair: that loving patriarch always thought I wanted a son.
If all were fair, I would have slept through that morning and the morning after and the morning after, I would’ve slept all through eternity; therefore preventing more people getting hurt by my menacing words and judgments.
But all weren’t fair, like everything else in this world. Yours truly is still alive.
So here’s a warning to everybody who crosses my path: please save yourself from degradation. Do not display to my face your bad English, your dirty and/or protruding teeth, your too-cheerful disgusting smile, and your inability to stop yourself from talking about such a pathetically unimportant thing as your life story.
This year, I will forgive you for all your goblokness as long as you don’t be too goblok to display it to my face. And you should forgive me for – yes, for having lived past another year.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
ON SLEEPING WITH A GIRL
The vision doesn’t come often.
Not nowadays.
Once it was when you asked me whether I was a lesbian, and I decided to laugh it off. The other time was somewhere between awake and asleep, when I was fast drowning into the world where my reality was as pretty as my fantasy.
***
“I didn’t use to be this stupid,” I had laughingly told X, “Do you remember? School used to be so easy for me.”
My voice was hoarse, because of the laugh, and the tears that came right after.
“You aren’t becoming stupid,” X consoled me. It was a hot day; we were at her bedroom watching TV. And drinking something I can’t recall. Probably iced tea, because she loved iced tea so much. “You,” she continued, “you just have too many things on your mind.”
Nevertheless, my grades weren’t as good as they used to be, and if you knew me, you’d understand why this kind of things bothered me. X was of course one the few people that really knew me. She knew me so well that when we were 12 years old, she already predicted what I would do for a living. I also knew her well: I too predicted what she would become when she grew up. Turns out that we both were right. That is, I’m telling you, how well we knew each other.
In my jealous mind, she grew more and more intelligent: she went to the best university in the country, while I grew stupider by the hour and ended up in a university nowhere near her league. My heart was getting heavier when the first semester’s result was out: it was so bad, I even got one ‘D’. Me, I don’t flunk my exams. I simply don’t.
I told her that, for about a gazillion times. (I didn’t use to be this stupid. Look how stupid I am now. I didn’t use to be this stupid. Look how stupid I am now. I didn’t –)
What prompted her to hold me tightly against her heart, I’m not quite sure of. Maybe because I looked so wretched, so nearing nervous breakdown, and she hated seeing me that way. Maybe because she knew it wasn’t about bad grades after all, for it was really about that “too many things in my mind.” Maybe because girls simply hug each other in troubled times.
Whether girls simply kiss each other in troubled times, I don’t know. Yet X and I did.
At that time I had a very innocent relationship with a guy, and when he kissed me, it wasn’t nearly quite like how X kissed me.
Hers were soft kisses that grew fiery by the minute. I had my doubts when her soft lips first touched mine, but when it happened for the second time, I didn’t want anything other than giving in to her sugary mouth. I kissed her back, searching for the soul inside her. Soon she parted her lips, and I hungrily searched deeper for her soul. I realised that day that the velvety tongue that was caressing mine might as well be where her soul resided.
But I didn’t stop there.
We didn’t stop there.
She kissed my neck, and my breasts, and I was overwhelmed by the idea that her soul was maybe in that beating heart of hers. I couldn’t stop kissing her left chest, feeling the centre of her existence banging against the walls of her chest. I was pained with the need to caress her skin. I knew she was too. We both lay skin to skin in each other’s arms, trembling and trying to ease that pain. I had felt the urge to plant my lips all over her body. I kissed her breasts and yes: I kissed, licked, and sucked her tender nipples.
But a lesbian I was not. I am not. And, who are you to say otherwise?
***
The vision doesn’t come often.
Not nowadays.
Once it was when you asked me whether I was a lesbian, and I decided to laugh it off. The other time was somewhere between awake and asleep, when I was fast drowning into the world where my reality was as pretty as my fantasy.
I have no idea whether the vision comes from a dream, or a reality.
It’s not important anyway. All I’m sure of is that I know how it feels to sleep with a girl, as precisely as I know how to make a girl realise the magnificence of being loved by another girl.
Not nowadays.
Once it was when you asked me whether I was a lesbian, and I decided to laugh it off. The other time was somewhere between awake and asleep, when I was fast drowning into the world where my reality was as pretty as my fantasy.
***
“I didn’t use to be this stupid,” I had laughingly told X, “Do you remember? School used to be so easy for me.”
My voice was hoarse, because of the laugh, and the tears that came right after.
“You aren’t becoming stupid,” X consoled me. It was a hot day; we were at her bedroom watching TV. And drinking something I can’t recall. Probably iced tea, because she loved iced tea so much. “You,” she continued, “you just have too many things on your mind.”
Nevertheless, my grades weren’t as good as they used to be, and if you knew me, you’d understand why this kind of things bothered me. X was of course one the few people that really knew me. She knew me so well that when we were 12 years old, she already predicted what I would do for a living. I also knew her well: I too predicted what she would become when she grew up. Turns out that we both were right. That is, I’m telling you, how well we knew each other.
In my jealous mind, she grew more and more intelligent: she went to the best university in the country, while I grew stupider by the hour and ended up in a university nowhere near her league. My heart was getting heavier when the first semester’s result was out: it was so bad, I even got one ‘D’. Me, I don’t flunk my exams. I simply don’t.
I told her that, for about a gazillion times. (I didn’t use to be this stupid. Look how stupid I am now. I didn’t use to be this stupid. Look how stupid I am now. I didn’t –)
What prompted her to hold me tightly against her heart, I’m not quite sure of. Maybe because I looked so wretched, so nearing nervous breakdown, and she hated seeing me that way. Maybe because she knew it wasn’t about bad grades after all, for it was really about that “too many things in my mind.” Maybe because girls simply hug each other in troubled times.
Whether girls simply kiss each other in troubled times, I don’t know. Yet X and I did.
At that time I had a very innocent relationship with a guy, and when he kissed me, it wasn’t nearly quite like how X kissed me.
Hers were soft kisses that grew fiery by the minute. I had my doubts when her soft lips first touched mine, but when it happened for the second time, I didn’t want anything other than giving in to her sugary mouth. I kissed her back, searching for the soul inside her. Soon she parted her lips, and I hungrily searched deeper for her soul. I realised that day that the velvety tongue that was caressing mine might as well be where her soul resided.
But I didn’t stop there.
We didn’t stop there.
She kissed my neck, and my breasts, and I was overwhelmed by the idea that her soul was maybe in that beating heart of hers. I couldn’t stop kissing her left chest, feeling the centre of her existence banging against the walls of her chest. I was pained with the need to caress her skin. I knew she was too. We both lay skin to skin in each other’s arms, trembling and trying to ease that pain. I had felt the urge to plant my lips all over her body. I kissed her breasts and yes: I kissed, licked, and sucked her tender nipples.
But a lesbian I was not. I am not. And, who are you to say otherwise?
***
The vision doesn’t come often.
Not nowadays.
Once it was when you asked me whether I was a lesbian, and I decided to laugh it off. The other time was somewhere between awake and asleep, when I was fast drowning into the world where my reality was as pretty as my fantasy.
I have no idea whether the vision comes from a dream, or a reality.
It’s not important anyway. All I’m sure of is that I know how it feels to sleep with a girl, as precisely as I know how to make a girl realise the magnificence of being loved by another girl.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
THIS WON'T START WITH AN "ANJRIT"
There, I promise.
This post won't be full of fury. Har har. It's gonna be a dolce leggiero tune. Oh I had meant to start with anjrit and write this whole thing in Indonesian but I think writing in dolce leggiero will be a good exercise. I will not dare calling myself a writer if I cannot write anything any other way than full of fury.
So here goes:
**
I arrived home about two weeks ago, tired inside and out. It felt like I had spent the entire day ambitiously trying to give Error Detection Methods lecture to a roomful ofmonkeys ignorant young learners.
Then I saw it: a letter from the tax office. Stating that I hadn't paid my personal tax for the year 2003 and therefore was given a penalty. True, the penalty wasn't a big sum. But: I had paid my tax. I had filled out thosegoddamn numerous forms, honestly writing down how much I made, all the way thinking the government owed me money and not the other way around. I had paid the due amount in January 2004.
I was unlucky, to say the least, to have an NPWP of my own. That means I have to report my financial situation to the tax office yearly. How I got that NPWP was a tragic story of itself. Anyway, in 2003 I was more of a freelancer, the companies I worked for didn't cut off my salary for tax purposes, and being a goody-two-shoes I reported that to the tax office.Goddamnit. By golly.
With all good intentions I went to the tax office the following Friday, explained my situation and was told to pay the penalty anyway. I wasn't angry at that time. I just wanted it to get over with. So I filled out yet other forms, and get ready to part with the rest of my allowance for that week. The only problem is: no banks in the vicinity of the tax office can accept tax payment.
Can you imagine? I walked back and forth, and back, and forth, I went into all banks within 800 metres radius of the tax office, and none would accept my money. I walked and walked on the non-existent pavement, fighting for each step against what seemed like a billions of motorcycles. I had smartly left my car at the tax office, thinking the banks were within my walking distance anyway. When the sixth or seventh bank refused my money, I wanted to roll on the floor laughing, along with God.
But the matter was finally settled yesterday, thank God, I'll live happily in my safe little world until they feel like sending me a letter again, I guess. And there was one other thing that happened yesterday that made me so deliriously happy I thought I found the sun inside my purse.
**
There I wrote it. No anjrits in the whole passage. I have just finished re-reading it for the umpteenth time and would like to herewith confirm that I will not dare calling myself a writer.
This post won't be full of fury. Har har. It's gonna be a dolce leggiero tune. Oh I had meant to start with anjrit and write this whole thing in Indonesian but I think writing in dolce leggiero will be a good exercise. I will not dare calling myself a writer if I cannot write anything any other way than full of fury.
So here goes:
**
I arrived home about two weeks ago, tired inside and out. It felt like I had spent the entire day ambitiously trying to give Error Detection Methods lecture to a roomful of
Then I saw it: a letter from the tax office. Stating that I hadn't paid my personal tax for the year 2003 and therefore was given a penalty. True, the penalty wasn't a big sum. But: I had paid my tax. I had filled out those
I was unlucky, to say the least, to have an NPWP of my own. That means I have to report my financial situation to the tax office yearly. How I got that NPWP was a tragic story of itself. Anyway, in 2003 I was more of a freelancer, the companies I worked for didn't cut off my salary for tax purposes, and being a goody-two-shoes I reported that to the tax office.
With all good intentions I went to the tax office the following Friday, explained my situation and was told to pay the penalty anyway. I wasn't angry at that time. I just wanted it to get over with. So I filled out yet other forms, and get ready to part with the rest of my allowance for that week. The only problem is: no banks in the vicinity of the tax office can accept tax payment.
Can you imagine? I walked back and forth, and back, and forth, I went into all banks within 800 metres radius of the tax office, and none would accept my money. I walked and walked on the non-existent pavement, fighting for each step against what seemed like a billions of motorcycles. I had smartly left my car at the tax office, thinking the banks were within my walking distance anyway. When the sixth or seventh bank refused my money, I wanted to roll on the floor laughing, along with God.
But the matter was finally settled yesterday, thank God, I'll live happily in my safe little world until they feel like sending me a letter again, I guess. And there was one other thing that happened yesterday that made me so deliriously happy I thought I found the sun inside my purse.
**
There I wrote it. No anjrits in the whole passage. I have just finished re-reading it for the umpteenth time and would like to herewith confirm that I will not dare calling myself a writer.
Friday, August 05, 2005
BUT HOW DO YOU DEFINE SEX?
Now that I look back at the ruins of our relationship, N, it becomes apparent that we both had been testing each other all along, although none of us would admit that in this lifetime.
My test went like this: “if you really care for me, you will not pressure me into having sex with you”, while your test went: “if you really care for me, you will make love to me.”
I really don’t have the heart to say this, but I’ll say it anyway: we both fail each other miserably.
You cannot blame me for remembering every detail of that day, Dear.
Did you know?
I used to memorise your words. I told my skin to memorise yours. Every time I lay in bed, I would start aching for you. Even when I was too busy to call you, my body would always miss you.
Did you know all that?
You cannot blame me for remembering how scorching hot that day was.
My legs were in pain: I had been driving 45 kilometres, away from everybody, to find a secluded place, to be with you.
My words were scarce: you understood my laughs, my touches, my every gesture, and I was thankful for that. I was thankful that I didn’t have to talk too much whenever I was with you, that serenity of the time spent with you was the one thing that I miss so much now.
My heart was heavy: I had grown tired of keeping you a secret from everybody. I knew you were tired of keeping me a secret too. I knew that the days without you were lurking near. We both didn’t dare pointing it out to each other. To this day, I still can’t figure out how exactly we agreed on the decision to disappear from each other’s life and pretend that nothing has ever happened.
You cannot blame me for remembering how long we were locked in a hug, how words stopped being important, how warm your skin felt to my touch. You cannot blame me for remembering: your lips were sweet, your breathing was deep, your hair as smooth as a baby’s, you kept opening your mouth to say something but couldn’t get the words out. You cannot blame me for remembering how deep we were lost in those kisses.
You cannot blame me for remembering how you tasted exactly. It was the first time I took somebody to my mouth, and the taste of you stayed on my tongue for so long.
Do you know?
Food tastes funny to me since then, as if they lack something I cannot put my finger on. I try to curb my longing for a fuller taste by adding salt to everything.
Until it dawned recently on me: nothing tastes right to me because my life is lacking you.
My test went like this: “if you really care for me, you will not pressure me into having sex with you”, while your test went: “if you really care for me, you will make love to me.”
I really don’t have the heart to say this, but I’ll say it anyway: we both fail each other miserably.
You cannot blame me for remembering every detail of that day, Dear.
Did you know?
I used to memorise your words. I told my skin to memorise yours. Every time I lay in bed, I would start aching for you. Even when I was too busy to call you, my body would always miss you.
Did you know all that?
You cannot blame me for remembering how scorching hot that day was.
My legs were in pain: I had been driving 45 kilometres, away from everybody, to find a secluded place, to be with you.
My words were scarce: you understood my laughs, my touches, my every gesture, and I was thankful for that. I was thankful that I didn’t have to talk too much whenever I was with you, that serenity of the time spent with you was the one thing that I miss so much now.
My heart was heavy: I had grown tired of keeping you a secret from everybody. I knew you were tired of keeping me a secret too. I knew that the days without you were lurking near. We both didn’t dare pointing it out to each other. To this day, I still can’t figure out how exactly we agreed on the decision to disappear from each other’s life and pretend that nothing has ever happened.
You cannot blame me for remembering how long we were locked in a hug, how words stopped being important, how warm your skin felt to my touch. You cannot blame me for remembering: your lips were sweet, your breathing was deep, your hair as smooth as a baby’s, you kept opening your mouth to say something but couldn’t get the words out. You cannot blame me for remembering how deep we were lost in those kisses.
You cannot blame me for remembering how you tasted exactly. It was the first time I took somebody to my mouth, and the taste of you stayed on my tongue for so long.
Do you know?
Food tastes funny to me since then, as if they lack something I cannot put my finger on. I try to curb my longing for a fuller taste by adding salt to everything.
Until it dawned recently on me: nothing tastes right to me because my life is lacking you.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
LEGAL BUT HURTFUL NONETHELESS: LEGAL ABORTION, THE 'MUI' WAY
Let me make one thing clear: I don't run around blindly saying that abortions should be legal at all costs. It's just that, as a 10-year-old girl I came up to my mom once and asked: "If a 13-year-old girl was raped by a school janitor and got pregnant, wouldn't it be very urgent to terminate her pregnancy? At least, to save her sanity?"
As my mom stood there gaping, I saw the answer dawning in her eyes: yes, her answer was yes.
And isn't it supposed to be it? To be yes?
If you terminate your pregnancy because you have been irresponsible, or you can't bear the responsibilities that will surely come with a new-life you bring, then I guess the guilty feeling will haunt you right to your deathbed. But nobody in her right mind will let a rape victim live face to face with a creature forced into her womb via a very degrading, inhumane crime. Isn't it as crystal-clear as the mind of a 10-year-old child who thinks all bad people will go to jail and all good people will succeed in life?
So when I read recently that MUI had stipulated abortion as legal, I was torn between surprise and excitement. Further down with my reading, though, I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth.
The stipulation said abortion was legal if it was done within the first 40 days of pregnancy. That leaves a woman with only 10 days to make her decision: when you are 10 days late, you are already roughly 38 to 40 days pregnant. If you aren't as regular as a clockwork, I'd say missing that 10-days timeframe is as easy as missing the next bus home.
The legal reasons for abortion, the stipulation said, were rapes, incests, and genetic-related diseases. Whoa. Genetic-related diseases can't be detected within the first 40 days of pregnancy. Tests for that purpose can only be done when you are 4 months along.
But that's not all. The one that really threw me to the wall was this: a rape victim must have a recommendation letter from her family, a doctor, AND an ulama, stating that indeed she is a rape victim, to be able to have a legal abortion. As if the crime itself isn't humiliating enough....must she really degrade herself further by begging that goddam recommendation letter from practically everybody around her? Must a woman always let other people make decisions for her? By God, she has her own mind!
I can just picture it: the clinics which practice illegal abortions are unsafe. The clinic which practice legal ones will demand recommendation letters. Who, if I might ask, will be the ones to pay the real price here? For every single mispronounced word in the world, it seems to me, women will have to pay the consequence.
Oh how I picture it: the advanced female ulamas in MUI fought hard to bring about the 'fatwa aborsi legal', battling with cynical male ulamas, and finally could only come up with this insufficient stipulation. How hurtful it is to see a slap disguised as a help.
I don't know where women have to turn, even counting on fellow females often proves to be fruitless. Because it is a men's world still: men with blackties, and men with lipsticks and stilletos too.
On a more general term, legal-abortion aside, I hope I'll be forever out of the circumstances where I have to let others meddling with my life. Where I have to make others make the decisions for my life. Where, alas, I have to put my life into somebody else's palm.
It is a hard life, but it is my own, and I am more than willing to pull through its end without begging for a recommendation letter from anyone.
As my mom stood there gaping, I saw the answer dawning in her eyes: yes, her answer was yes.
And isn't it supposed to be it? To be yes?
If you terminate your pregnancy because you have been irresponsible, or you can't bear the responsibilities that will surely come with a new-life you bring, then I guess the guilty feeling will haunt you right to your deathbed. But nobody in her right mind will let a rape victim live face to face with a creature forced into her womb via a very degrading, inhumane crime. Isn't it as crystal-clear as the mind of a 10-year-old child who thinks all bad people will go to jail and all good people will succeed in life?
So when I read recently that MUI had stipulated abortion as legal, I was torn between surprise and excitement. Further down with my reading, though, I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth.
The stipulation said abortion was legal if it was done within the first 40 days of pregnancy. That leaves a woman with only 10 days to make her decision: when you are 10 days late, you are already roughly 38 to 40 days pregnant. If you aren't as regular as a clockwork, I'd say missing that 10-days timeframe is as easy as missing the next bus home.
The legal reasons for abortion, the stipulation said, were rapes, incests, and genetic-related diseases. Whoa. Genetic-related diseases can't be detected within the first 40 days of pregnancy. Tests for that purpose can only be done when you are 4 months along.
But that's not all. The one that really threw me to the wall was this: a rape victim must have a recommendation letter from her family, a doctor, AND an ulama, stating that indeed she is a rape victim, to be able to have a legal abortion. As if the crime itself isn't humiliating enough....must she really degrade herself further by begging that goddam recommendation letter from practically everybody around her? Must a woman always let other people make decisions for her? By God, she has her own mind!
I can just picture it: the clinics which practice illegal abortions are unsafe. The clinic which practice legal ones will demand recommendation letters. Who, if I might ask, will be the ones to pay the real price here? For every single mispronounced word in the world, it seems to me, women will have to pay the consequence.
Oh how I picture it: the advanced female ulamas in MUI fought hard to bring about the 'fatwa aborsi legal', battling with cynical male ulamas, and finally could only come up with this insufficient stipulation. How hurtful it is to see a slap disguised as a help.
I don't know where women have to turn, even counting on fellow females often proves to be fruitless. Because it is a men's world still: men with blackties, and men with lipsticks and stilletos too.
On a more general term, legal-abortion aside, I hope I'll be forever out of the circumstances where I have to let others meddling with my life. Where I have to make others make the decisions for my life. Where, alas, I have to put my life into somebody else's palm.
It is a hard life, but it is my own, and I am more than willing to pull through its end without begging for a recommendation letter from anyone.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
MID-YEAR RECAP
Ah. Mid-year is here. Seven months have passed without any significances. Or have they?
Sometime back I read that the only way not to fail your new-year resolution is by not having any. But that sounded too safe for me, the true risk-taker. Har har.
So yes, I made some resolution for 2005. I wrote them down, because I read somewhere that the best way to commit to your goals is by starting right: put them in writing. According to this weird article I read, there was even a research that showed you'd be more likely to succeed if you put your goals in writing, and you have the chance to read what you wrote often.
With all good intentions I wrote my goals down neatly, and then did a critical mistake: I never re-read what I wrote.
A few days ago I came across that list, and was mildly surprised that I have accomplished several goals I wrote down. As for several others that I'm not even close to, well, obviously I haven't accomplished them not because I am insufficient. It's due to the fact that I don't see that list often.
Because we still have 4 months left of 2005, why don't you start listing down some goals and make sure that you read them everyday? It works! Really! I now wear matching underwear every single day! (Yes, that was somewhere in my list.)
As for me, err, I have torn apart that list, because, errr, I am happy with what I have accomplished this far. Err, yes. Really.
Sometime back I read that the only way not to fail your new-year resolution is by not having any. But that sounded too safe for me, the true risk-taker. Har har.
So yes, I made some resolution for 2005. I wrote them down, because I read somewhere that the best way to commit to your goals is by starting right: put them in writing. According to this weird article I read, there was even a research that showed you'd be more likely to succeed if you put your goals in writing, and you have the chance to read what you wrote often.
With all good intentions I wrote my goals down neatly, and then did a critical mistake: I never re-read what I wrote.
A few days ago I came across that list, and was mildly surprised that I have accomplished several goals I wrote down. As for several others that I'm not even close to, well, obviously I haven't accomplished them not because I am insufficient. It's due to the fact that I don't see that list often.
Because we still have 4 months left of 2005, why don't you start listing down some goals and make sure that you read them everyday? It works! Really! I now wear matching underwear every single day! (Yes, that was somewhere in my list.)
As for me, err, I have torn apart that list, because, errr, I am happy with what I have accomplished this far. Err, yes. Really.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
FREE-FALLING
I stood under the scorching sun. She lay under the red earth.
The Minister said thank you for coming. A relative of hers said please forgive her. (She and her ex-boyfriend once borrowed my favourite book and ruined it. I told her it was fine by me..but it wasn't really fine by me until that day, when she lay there beneath the white lilies.)
Another friend who was also there asked me how I were. I said I were fine. Then I asked her how she was. She too said she was fine. We both lied.
I told V that I didn't have that many friends I was truly comfortable with, and I couldn't believe I had to lose one of them like this.
V didn't answer. She stood there clutching her umbrella, and I looked at her still face and felt ashamed of my own weakened knees, my trembling heart.
"I'm tired of teaching-menicing", she said the last time we met, pronouncing 'teaching' in perfect English, and 'me-ni-cing' in perfect Indonesian. "I want to be a research assistant, or a lecturer like you." I had laughed when I heard that, because a 'lecturer like me' spent most of the day doing the teaching-menicing she had grown tired of.
I was reminded of that, and many other occassions spent with her. I couldn't tell what was wrong with me, what went wrong with the plan to keep my cool. Oh and of course I had planned to be as strong as V. I had planned not to cry. I couldn't tell what was wrong with anything and everything.
In between my swallowed sobs, all I could tell was this: keeping your cool ain't the easiest thing to do -- when you are watching people putting a part of you deep under the red earth.
The Minister said thank you for coming. A relative of hers said please forgive her. (She and her ex-boyfriend once borrowed my favourite book and ruined it. I told her it was fine by me..but it wasn't really fine by me until that day, when she lay there beneath the white lilies.)
Another friend who was also there asked me how I were. I said I were fine. Then I asked her how she was. She too said she was fine. We both lied.
I told V that I didn't have that many friends I was truly comfortable with, and I couldn't believe I had to lose one of them like this.
V didn't answer. She stood there clutching her umbrella, and I looked at her still face and felt ashamed of my own weakened knees, my trembling heart.
"I'm tired of teaching-menicing", she said the last time we met, pronouncing 'teaching' in perfect English, and 'me-ni-cing' in perfect Indonesian. "I want to be a research assistant, or a lecturer like you." I had laughed when I heard that, because a 'lecturer like me' spent most of the day doing the teaching-menicing she had grown tired of.
I was reminded of that, and many other occassions spent with her. I couldn't tell what was wrong with me, what went wrong with the plan to keep my cool. Oh and of course I had planned to be as strong as V. I had planned not to cry. I couldn't tell what was wrong with anything and everything.
In between my swallowed sobs, all I could tell was this: keeping your cool ain't the easiest thing to do -- when you are watching people putting a part of you deep under the red earth.
Monday, July 25, 2005
REQUISCAT IN PACE
Dian Rahmasari, 2-4-1977 ~ 24-7-2005.
I think one of your missions on earth was to teach me about life.
And I have learnt a lot from you, Dear.
Sleep tight..
I think one of your missions on earth was to teach me about life.
And I have learnt a lot from you, Dear.
Sleep tight..
Saturday, July 23, 2005
A SELF-DEFENSE MECHANISM BY ANY OTHER NAME....
Does this disease have a name?
I'm down with the most severe forgetfulness.
For several weeks already, a day at the office would start with a session of 30 minutes frantic effort to find a book, a key, a sheet of paper, everything. And it would always end with one.
I tried to dismiss it as a temporary memory-loss, due to stress, or hastiness, or lack of focus. But last Friday, while walking to my office building, I found out that I had forgotten to button my shirt properly. Right there and then, a bitterness formed in my palate.
What can I say?
I admit to be rather vain with my memory. I admit that that morning,as I anxiously tried to do my buttons while pretending that there was nothing wrong with my brains, I was fighting back my tears.
What have I done to earn this disease? I don't have a killer schedule I used to have 5 years ago. I have enough time to contemplate, to focus on things whenever I need to, and to have a good rest at the end of each day. With a guilt I reflected on one occassion when a student of mine said he wanted to take 10 credits during the holiday's crash program, and I said something resembling "Wouldn't it be too tiring to cram that many subjects all at once? Would you be able to remember everything?"
And he said solemnly: "Don't worry, I'll take ginkgo-biloba supplements."
Me and my big mouth should begin taking ginkgo-biloba supplements now.
I refrain from taking them, though, because somewhere at the back of my mind, something is telling me that this forgetfulness is a subconscious way of self-defense mechanism. There is something I need to forget badly, because remembering it will hurt me to the point of no return.
I refrain from taking them because I vaguely remember asking God to make me forget. Because God doesn't make a mistake, the mistake must have been mine.
Maybe, I ask God to help me forget everything, when what I wanted to pray for was for God to help me forget you.
I'm down with the most severe forgetfulness.
For several weeks already, a day at the office would start with a session of 30 minutes frantic effort to find a book, a key, a sheet of paper, everything. And it would always end with one.
I tried to dismiss it as a temporary memory-loss, due to stress, or hastiness, or lack of focus. But last Friday, while walking to my office building, I found out that I had forgotten to button my shirt properly. Right there and then, a bitterness formed in my palate.
What can I say?
I admit to be rather vain with my memory. I admit that that morning,as I anxiously tried to do my buttons while pretending that there was nothing wrong with my brains, I was fighting back my tears.
What have I done to earn this disease? I don't have a killer schedule I used to have 5 years ago. I have enough time to contemplate, to focus on things whenever I need to, and to have a good rest at the end of each day. With a guilt I reflected on one occassion when a student of mine said he wanted to take 10 credits during the holiday's crash program, and I said something resembling "Wouldn't it be too tiring to cram that many subjects all at once? Would you be able to remember everything?"
And he said solemnly: "Don't worry, I'll take ginkgo-biloba supplements."
Me and my big mouth should begin taking ginkgo-biloba supplements now.
I refrain from taking them, though, because somewhere at the back of my mind, something is telling me that this forgetfulness is a subconscious way of self-defense mechanism. There is something I need to forget badly, because remembering it will hurt me to the point of no return.
I refrain from taking them because I vaguely remember asking God to make me forget. Because God doesn't make a mistake, the mistake must have been mine.
Maybe, I ask God to help me forget everything, when what I wanted to pray for was for God to help me forget you.
Monday, July 18, 2005
PARDON ME, BUT WHO ARE YOU AGAIN?
+ I wanna post something on my blog. Any ideas on what I should write about?
- Write something about me.
+ Aren't there more difficult things to write about?
By that last remark, I was implying that writing about you was too difficult to do, the reasons being you are a very complex person who is impossible to be summed-up at a glance, and it's almost impossible to write something about someone without it begins to seem too much like a loathsome Friendster testimonial. I simply am not a person who writes Friendster testimonials, except for one person. And that wasn't you.
Anyway the idea stuck with me, and already I'm typing all these down because I for one would also like to see what my perceptions are about you. You know how ideas stay abstract in your brains, and how they become more real when you put them in writing.
Sometime back you told me you were an agnostic, and I suddenly thought of bitter, cynical, highly scientific people who looked down on people like me. 'People like me' meaning those sorry creatures who hold on to prayers, and the romantic idea that everything will be okay in the end. Those sorry creatures who nervously cling to the hope that one can suffer on earth and be eternally happy in the hereafter. I thought you had many sarcastic, highly logical, eye-opening arguments for people like me.
What can I say? Turns out that I was the one who still held doubts about one verse in the Quran (I bet you remember which verse) and you were the one who gave me a thorough explanation of what was "probably really" meant by that particular verse.
I did my homework, too. I read a bit about agnostic views in Bertrand Russel's page. Voila. I wasn't too far off the mark: a bitter, highly scientific person he is. As I read further and further down the page, I was stupefied by the bitterness he oozes, the cold logic that he uses to face all facets of life. Is it because he is Bertrand Russel, or because he is an agnostic? Do you share the same views of life with him, because you are an agnostic as well? Are you that bitter?
Go on. If you haven't already, read what Russel has to say about "the beauty and harmony of nature". While I agree with him that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I am the sort of people who can find beauty in, say, a tub of warm bath water. Sue me, but if you honestly think life hasn't a speck of beauty whatsoever, then I'd be scared of you.
But, but:
Here are my collections of scattered thoughts and memories about you:
While reading the Girls On The Sofa segment in this month's FHM, your comment was: "Shallow questions."
You agreed, though, that its featured woman of the month was an eye-candy.
While describing a book you like, your sentences included the words "genius", "in-depth", "worldly".
While watching a classical concert, you changed places during recess, to get a better view of the musicians.
You said having sex resembled contemplating Mozart's compositions or reading a good book.
If all agnostic people can't find harmony in this life, then at least you are one exception. I saw that you found Sudirman Leman's performance, and Amy Tan's first book quite harmonious, at the very least.
And where does all this lead me to? I told you I couldn't find the courage to sum you up. I just feel like maybe, if I were trapped for hours in an elevator one day, with the lights off and the oxygen low, with panic attacks of death looming near, I might console myself by reminiscing about our pleasurable discussions.
- Write something about me.
+ Aren't there more difficult things to write about?
By that last remark, I was implying that writing about you was too difficult to do, the reasons being you are a very complex person who is impossible to be summed-up at a glance, and it's almost impossible to write something about someone without it begins to seem too much like a loathsome Friendster testimonial. I simply am not a person who writes Friendster testimonials, except for one person. And that wasn't you.
Anyway the idea stuck with me, and already I'm typing all these down because I for one would also like to see what my perceptions are about you. You know how ideas stay abstract in your brains, and how they become more real when you put them in writing.
Sometime back you told me you were an agnostic, and I suddenly thought of bitter, cynical, highly scientific people who looked down on people like me. 'People like me' meaning those sorry creatures who hold on to prayers, and the romantic idea that everything will be okay in the end. Those sorry creatures who nervously cling to the hope that one can suffer on earth and be eternally happy in the hereafter. I thought you had many sarcastic, highly logical, eye-opening arguments for people like me.
What can I say? Turns out that I was the one who still held doubts about one verse in the Quran (I bet you remember which verse) and you were the one who gave me a thorough explanation of what was "probably really" meant by that particular verse.
I did my homework, too. I read a bit about agnostic views in Bertrand Russel's page. Voila. I wasn't too far off the mark: a bitter, highly scientific person he is. As I read further and further down the page, I was stupefied by the bitterness he oozes, the cold logic that he uses to face all facets of life. Is it because he is Bertrand Russel, or because he is an agnostic? Do you share the same views of life with him, because you are an agnostic as well? Are you that bitter?
Go on. If you haven't already, read what Russel has to say about "the beauty and harmony of nature". While I agree with him that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I am the sort of people who can find beauty in, say, a tub of warm bath water. Sue me, but if you honestly think life hasn't a speck of beauty whatsoever, then I'd be scared of you.
But, but:
Here are my collections of scattered thoughts and memories about you:
While reading the Girls On The Sofa segment in this month's FHM, your comment was: "Shallow questions."
You agreed, though, that its featured woman of the month was an eye-candy.
While describing a book you like, your sentences included the words "genius", "in-depth", "worldly".
While watching a classical concert, you changed places during recess, to get a better view of the musicians.
You said having sex resembled contemplating Mozart's compositions or reading a good book.
If all agnostic people can't find harmony in this life, then at least you are one exception. I saw that you found Sudirman Leman's performance, and Amy Tan's first book quite harmonious, at the very least.
And where does all this lead me to? I told you I couldn't find the courage to sum you up. I just feel like maybe, if I were trapped for hours in an elevator one day, with the lights off and the oxygen low, with panic attacks of death looming near, I might console myself by reminiscing about our pleasurable discussions.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIMEEEE
Another student dropped by my office yesterday, and, wouldn't you know it, ended up having a casual chat with me and popped that question. The one about why oh why I chose this job out of the many better ones out there. He wanted to take a major* similar to mine, and boy, didn't I notice his nervousness about ending up in profession similar to mine also. So I assured him that I had many other choices, don't worry Kid, just you take this major if you want to and don't worry about the possibilities of ending up as a lecturer, in my case, I had many other job offers but this one profession chose me. I didn't choose it. It chose me.
That was what I told him. Because I couldn't tell him, or anyone for that matter, the truth.
Which is: I am a masochist.
There is nothing more exhilarating for me than busting my ass off trying to keep my head above the water, and that is the main reason why this profession chose me.
And that was also precisely why I chose to study electrical engineering. Though stupid as I might be, I'd known since I was 12 that I'd ace English literature easily. The language never ceases to amaze me, I love the grammar and am good at it (and not ashamed to acknowledge it), I love reading and I write constantly. I know in English Lit faculty you're not only reading and writing fictions and poetry for hours on end, you're required to read plays and act them out too. And I love those. I love reading plays and I enjoy role-playing. In fact, after watching my role-playing in different occasions (mainly during teaching trainings), several people mentioned that I could act well.
But taking an English major would not be satisfying. I wanted to fry my brains, experience near brains-hemorrhage, choke and gasp for air for the rest of my life. So Electrical Engineering it is. Hence started my neverending dreams of having even more difficult exams (I first had my series of exam-dreams in highschool) and the continuous struggle to keep myself from going completely hysterical.
Well, who wouldn't go hysterical having to solve differential-equations and the likes? I might complain now and then, but deep inside I like it; and the more difficult and nerve-wrecking and painful it is, the more I like it. Somebody told me that once. And he was so damn right.
This masochism in me inevitably ventures out of my choice of education major from time to time. But I have to take good care of myself so no more bashing in bed although sometimes I'm dying for one.
One good song to accompany this post would be that one by Britney Spears, herself looks like a masochist tramp (and I love her for that) which goes "hit me baby one more timeeee" (insert a fragile looking female wanting a good whip here). Oh or anything by Christina Aguilerra (even more masochist-looking, even more trampish, and I love her even more than Britneybabe).
You see? How can I tell anyone why I ended up as a lecturer of electrical engineering? I can't just go "Because I am a masochist", at least not without black eyeshadow and false eyelashes and tight cropped t-shirt, a la Christina Aguilerra.
Any ideas?
*Electrical Engineering, concentrating in telecommunication engineering.
That was what I told him. Because I couldn't tell him, or anyone for that matter, the truth.
Which is: I am a masochist.
There is nothing more exhilarating for me than busting my ass off trying to keep my head above the water, and that is the main reason why this profession chose me.
And that was also precisely why I chose to study electrical engineering. Though stupid as I might be, I'd known since I was 12 that I'd ace English literature easily. The language never ceases to amaze me, I love the grammar and am good at it (and not ashamed to acknowledge it), I love reading and I write constantly. I know in English Lit faculty you're not only reading and writing fictions and poetry for hours on end, you're required to read plays and act them out too. And I love those. I love reading plays and I enjoy role-playing. In fact, after watching my role-playing in different occasions (mainly during teaching trainings), several people mentioned that I could act well.
But taking an English major would not be satisfying. I wanted to fry my brains, experience near brains-hemorrhage, choke and gasp for air for the rest of my life. So Electrical Engineering it is. Hence started my neverending dreams of having even more difficult exams (I first had my series of exam-dreams in highschool) and the continuous struggle to keep myself from going completely hysterical.
Well, who wouldn't go hysterical having to solve differential-equations and the likes? I might complain now and then, but deep inside I like it; and the more difficult and nerve-wrecking and painful it is, the more I like it. Somebody told me that once. And he was so damn right.
This masochism in me inevitably ventures out of my choice of education major from time to time. But I have to take good care of myself so no more bashing in bed although sometimes I'm dying for one.
One good song to accompany this post would be that one by Britney Spears, herself looks like a masochist tramp (and I love her for that) which goes "hit me baby one more timeeee" (insert a fragile looking female wanting a good whip here). Oh or anything by Christina Aguilerra (even more masochist-looking, even more trampish, and I love her even more than Britneybabe).
You see? How can I tell anyone why I ended up as a lecturer of electrical engineering? I can't just go "Because I am a masochist", at least not without black eyeshadow and false eyelashes and tight cropped t-shirt, a la Christina Aguilerra.
Any ideas?
*Electrical Engineering, concentrating in telecommunication engineering.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
THIS IS AN E-MAIL FOR YOU, ACTUALLY
I feel like writing you an e-mail, but e-mails are forbidden too nowadays, I guess.
Hey, I can take a hint.
I want to tell you about that dream (It has come back!) You know, you told me once how to get rid of that dream. You said I had to say out loud, “I AM NOT AFRAID OF EXAMS” after each dream, and it’d go away.
The very night after you told me that, I had that dream again, the one in which I had to take an exam and failed miserably. (The variations are endless: I might come really late for the exam, or studied the wrong subject, or did the exam successfully without realising that I was totally naked the whole time).
I remembered you instantly: what you said, how to make the dream go away. But I couldn’t do it, because I am afraid of exams, I always am. Every day is an exam, and I am scared shitless of each and every one of it. But it is okay. I’ve been having this dream for more than 15 years now, so I guess I can live with 3 billion other versions of it, oh and anyway, during those dreams I feel really alive, like I have a real important purpose to work on, I wish I could feel that alive in my waking hours.
I want to tell you that The 512-Cylinder Brains gets straight A's this semester, crazy, I know, and the funny thing is how modest and humble he is about it: he said it was just luck. I told him to bag two more 4.0 GPA to ensure that he'd graduate as the best student in the university, yes, we're talking university here, because nobody came close to him in the department and in the faculty. And he blushed a little and said, "Really, Ma'am?"
You know how humble people always strike me the hardest.
I want to tell you that I just found out that June 8th is the birthday of this blog. I think this is the longest I spent writing in the same address. From the year 2002 I must have changed URL's every six months or so. I remember once moving my blog because I didn't want N to know what was going on inside my skull; then deleted the whole thing anyway because I didn't want to know, and didn't want to get reminded ever, of what was going on inside my skull.
I want to tell you how the whole world suddenly has to talk with me (where have these people been before?), when all I want is you talking with me.
I want to tell you so many things, all of them important and unimportant at the same time, everything becomes important when I talk about it with you. Hey, yesterday I eavesdropped a conversation between two colleagues of mine, it was really interesting. One of them is an advanced physicist, and he talked about half-truths and the whole goddamn thing of new-reality, something I can’t relay to you in English because my English is too limited, and I can’t relay in Indonesian because my Indonesian is also too limited, and I know by relaying it to you I’d understand the subject better, because you know, you patch up all the holes in my mind.
I want to tell you that that is how I am these days: walking around, with big holes in my mind.
Hey, I can take a hint.
I want to tell you about that dream (It has come back!) You know, you told me once how to get rid of that dream. You said I had to say out loud, “I AM NOT AFRAID OF EXAMS” after each dream, and it’d go away.
The very night after you told me that, I had that dream again, the one in which I had to take an exam and failed miserably. (The variations are endless: I might come really late for the exam, or studied the wrong subject, or did the exam successfully without realising that I was totally naked the whole time).
I remembered you instantly: what you said, how to make the dream go away. But I couldn’t do it, because I am afraid of exams, I always am. Every day is an exam, and I am scared shitless of each and every one of it. But it is okay. I’ve been having this dream for more than 15 years now, so I guess I can live with 3 billion other versions of it, oh and anyway, during those dreams I feel really alive, like I have a real important purpose to work on, I wish I could feel that alive in my waking hours.
I want to tell you that The 512-Cylinder Brains gets straight A's this semester, crazy, I know, and the funny thing is how modest and humble he is about it: he said it was just luck. I told him to bag two more 4.0 GPA to ensure that he'd graduate as the best student in the university, yes, we're talking university here, because nobody came close to him in the department and in the faculty. And he blushed a little and said, "Really, Ma'am?"
You know how humble people always strike me the hardest.
I want to tell you that I just found out that June 8th is the birthday of this blog. I think this is the longest I spent writing in the same address. From the year 2002 I must have changed URL's every six months or so. I remember once moving my blog because I didn't want N to know what was going on inside my skull; then deleted the whole thing anyway because I didn't want to know, and didn't want to get reminded ever, of what was going on inside my skull.
I want to tell you how the whole world suddenly has to talk with me (where have these people been before?), when all I want is you talking with me.
I want to tell you so many things, all of them important and unimportant at the same time, everything becomes important when I talk about it with you. Hey, yesterday I eavesdropped a conversation between two colleagues of mine, it was really interesting. One of them is an advanced physicist, and he talked about half-truths and the whole goddamn thing of new-reality, something I can’t relay to you in English because my English is too limited, and I can’t relay in Indonesian because my Indonesian is also too limited, and I know by relaying it to you I’d understand the subject better, because you know, you patch up all the holes in my mind.
I want to tell you that that is how I am these days: walking around, with big holes in my mind.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
BULLETPROOF VEST ET CETERA
Very, very early everyday, I put on my body armor according to the war at hand. I fancy having a .380 Auto Glock as part of this armor, but for the meantime, I will do with lipsticks and fancy undergarments. My wars are the kind of open battles with me standing against a fire-squad of at least 40 men (plus about 6 women). I have learnt a long time ago that the only way to win my wars is to plan my armor carefully. The Data Communication Battle for instance, calls for Armor 1 (Immaculately Applied Lipstick) and Armor 2 (Lacy Undergarments with Preferably Transparent Panty). Armor 3 (The Attire) isn't really important. Actually, I have this nagging hunch that I will easily win this particular battle if I simply leave Armor 3 at home.
The Telco Intro Battle requires Armor 1 and 2 as well. Armor 3 is not important, again, but unlike in Data Communication Battle, in Telco Intro Battle I never have the hunch to actually climb thedesk hill and take off Armor 3 completely. As the men and women assembling the fire squad for this particular battle are peculiarly jumpy, I make it a point to always, always, always, put on Armor 4 (Immaculately Etched Smile). It is not easy, because Armor 4 is one helluva heavy protective covering.
The Calculus Battle begins very early when I am still groggy from lack of sleep. This is the one battle that I honestly think the fire-squad is too strong for me. (They come without bringing any rifles sometimes, yet still able to shoot through my armors). So this one calls for Armor 1, Armor 2, Armor 3, Armor 4, and yes: Armor 5 (Immaculately Drawn And Worked-Out Escape Routes e.g. Heavyduty Problemsets Given to the Very Weak of the Fire-squad Members).
I won't bore you to death with the details of what typically happens during a battle. Suffice to say they are anything between my lying bleeding on the dirt and standing upright yelling out my war cries. The absurdities happen too, like when one enemy started taking pictures of me using his cellphone during one tough battle, and I -- being too shocked to react properly e.g. strike a nicer pose -- was so unprepared that he easily pinned me to the ground.
That was one big defeat. Imagine having the picture of my face attached to a beautiful naked body circulating around the Net....wait....why don't I find the idea disturbing? On the contrary, I'd like it, very much. Oh dear, no wonder they put me in an asylum from time to time.
Should you ever come across such a picture, I believe you'd know better. Woefully forced to use Armor 3 at each one of my wars, that beautiful naked body in the picture simply cannot be mine.
The Telco Intro Battle requires Armor 1 and 2 as well. Armor 3 is not important, again, but unlike in Data Communication Battle, in Telco Intro Battle I never have the hunch to actually climb the
The Calculus Battle begins very early when I am still groggy from lack of sleep. This is the one battle that I honestly think the fire-squad is too strong for me. (They come without bringing any rifles sometimes, yet still able to shoot through my armors). So this one calls for Armor 1, Armor 2, Armor 3, Armor 4, and yes: Armor 5 (Immaculately Drawn And Worked-Out Escape Routes e.g. Heavyduty Problemsets Given to the Very Weak of the Fire-squad Members).
I won't bore you to death with the details of what typically happens during a battle. Suffice to say they are anything between my lying bleeding on the dirt and standing upright yelling out my war cries. The absurdities happen too, like when one enemy started taking pictures of me using his cellphone during one tough battle, and I -- being too shocked to react properly e.g. strike a nicer pose -- was so unprepared that he easily pinned me to the ground.
That was one big defeat. Imagine having the picture of my face attached to a beautiful naked body circulating around the Net....wait....why don't I find the idea disturbing? On the contrary, I'd like it, very much. Oh dear, no wonder they put me in an asylum from time to time.
Should you ever come across such a picture, I believe you'd know better. Woefully forced to use Armor 3 at each one of my wars, that beautiful naked body in the picture simply cannot be mine.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
PAINFUL CANDY FACTORY
The classical concert last Thursday was a promotion event of a music school, actually. There were 7 pianists, 2 guitarists, 1 flutist, and 1 tenor performing in the 1,5-hour timeslot. No wonder I felt like being in a candy factory: so many sweets to choose from, it left me dizzy.
Watching a classical concert is paradoxical for me. I'd always have a great time doing it because I connect to the music just so; yet nothing pains me more than to have one great failure rubbed onto my face so harshly. You see, until I was 19, I thought classical music would get me somewhere.
I began taking piano lessons when I was old enough to know that a half is bigger than a quarter, and two one-eighth notes would total a quarter note. I knew no concept of hard work back then, but I knew if I practiced hard enough, hard enough that my fingers stung, hard enough that my brains numbed, hard enough that my heart ached, my teacher would reward me with a slight "Not bad!" in the next lesson.
I cried many times during my piano classes, sometimes because I was too young to handle criticism ("WRONNGGGGG!!!!!!!!!! YOU NEVER PLAY ANYTHING RIGHT!!!!! YOU RAISE MY BLOOD PRESSUREEEEE!!!!!!!), sometimes because I realised that I too demanded so much from myself. It is one thing to have an over-demanding teacher, but it is completely another thing to be your own over-demanding enemy. It was like having one part of me crying on the floor, begging for a time out to play hopscotch in the garden... and another part of me tearfully refused to budge an inch from the piano stool because this Schumann or Czerny or Kuhlau piece wasn't so difficult so we had to..we had to...we had to master it...even if...it meant no playing hopscotch for today. And tomorrow. And the next day. Even if it meant no playing hopscotch forever. The tearful girl at the piano always won. The one crying on the floor always lost. (Because deep down she too wanted to master this Schumann or Czerny or Kuhlau piece.)
Until adolescence came by a storm, and all realisation hit me across the face. It was during those cruel years that I realised I couldn't be anyone I wanted to, that my parents lied when they said I could choose what school to go to, that my grandmother was merely being nice when she told me that I was pretty, that being a female hurt, that Maths was bloody difficult, and that I wasn't gifted enough in classical music.
I continued studying on and off, though. Just to occupy my mind, and to please that one girl living inside me, the one who secretly wanted to be a musician.
That girl screamed inside me last Thursday, so loudly that my head hurt. Seeing Mario Santoso (merely 23 years old and shone brighter than Halley) playing Chopin was like being lashed across the face, the back, the legs, allover my body. My brains were throbbing with pain: how could he be so gifted, why were I so insufficient, how could I be so stupid for daring to have the big dream of being a musician, how could I wish for something too grand while having too little?
But I did have the other girl inside me still. The one who wanted to play hopscotch. She was the one who commanded me to lean forward in my seat, and absorb the music with gratitude.
When E asked when I was gonna perform on stage, if ever, my heart skipped a beat. I guess he didn't know how painful that casual question was for me. Something inside me wanted to die right then and there, for I was a person who could never swallow a reminder of a failure gracefully.
But I held back my tears. As a lump grew bigger in my throat, I told myself that fine, I would never ever play the piano like Mario Santoso did, but I bet he couldn't win playing hopscotch against me.
PS: But I had a great time watching the concert with you, E. You knew I did.
Watching a classical concert is paradoxical for me. I'd always have a great time doing it because I connect to the music just so; yet nothing pains me more than to have one great failure rubbed onto my face so harshly. You see, until I was 19, I thought classical music would get me somewhere.
I began taking piano lessons when I was old enough to know that a half is bigger than a quarter, and two one-eighth notes would total a quarter note. I knew no concept of hard work back then, but I knew if I practiced hard enough, hard enough that my fingers stung, hard enough that my brains numbed, hard enough that my heart ached, my teacher would reward me with a slight "Not bad!" in the next lesson.
I cried many times during my piano classes, sometimes because I was too young to handle criticism ("WRONNGGGGG!!!!!!!!!! YOU NEVER PLAY ANYTHING RIGHT!!!!! YOU RAISE MY BLOOD PRESSUREEEEE!!!!!!!), sometimes because I realised that I too demanded so much from myself. It is one thing to have an over-demanding teacher, but it is completely another thing to be your own over-demanding enemy. It was like having one part of me crying on the floor, begging for a time out to play hopscotch in the garden... and another part of me tearfully refused to budge an inch from the piano stool because this Schumann or Czerny or Kuhlau piece wasn't so difficult so we had to..we had to...we had to master it...even if...it meant no playing hopscotch for today. And tomorrow. And the next day. Even if it meant no playing hopscotch forever. The tearful girl at the piano always won. The one crying on the floor always lost. (Because deep down she too wanted to master this Schumann or Czerny or Kuhlau piece.)
Until adolescence came by a storm, and all realisation hit me across the face. It was during those cruel years that I realised I couldn't be anyone I wanted to, that my parents lied when they said I could choose what school to go to, that my grandmother was merely being nice when she told me that I was pretty, that being a female hurt, that Maths was bloody difficult, and that I wasn't gifted enough in classical music.
I continued studying on and off, though. Just to occupy my mind, and to please that one girl living inside me, the one who secretly wanted to be a musician.
That girl screamed inside me last Thursday, so loudly that my head hurt. Seeing Mario Santoso (merely 23 years old and shone brighter than Halley) playing Chopin was like being lashed across the face, the back, the legs, allover my body. My brains were throbbing with pain: how could he be so gifted, why were I so insufficient, how could I be so stupid for daring to have the big dream of being a musician, how could I wish for something too grand while having too little?
But I did have the other girl inside me still. The one who wanted to play hopscotch. She was the one who commanded me to lean forward in my seat, and absorb the music with gratitude.
When E asked when I was gonna perform on stage, if ever, my heart skipped a beat. I guess he didn't know how painful that casual question was for me. Something inside me wanted to die right then and there, for I was a person who could never swallow a reminder of a failure gracefully.
But I held back my tears. As a lump grew bigger in my throat, I told myself that fine, I would never ever play the piano like Mario Santoso did, but I bet he couldn't win playing hopscotch against me.
PS: But I had a great time watching the concert with you, E. You knew I did.
Monday, May 30, 2005
I CAN
1) I can drive. This is a big deal considering I am your basic klutz who habitually drops a plate during dishwashing, drops contactlenses trying to put them on, et cetera. So far I've known to have driven right-smack into our front gate, backed into an electricity pole, and made a perfect tight curve right into the bumper of another car.
2) I can read and write Arabic letters, but I only know the meaning of maybe 15-20 Arabic words. So in a way the knowledge of Arabic letters is one of my many useless knowledge, but I am secretly happy having this particular useless knowledge. Make it I am secretly happy having ALL of my useless knowledge. (Yes, including the one about knowing what a wombat is.)
3) I can stand upright then bow all the way down and plant my lips to my knees, and hold that position by embracing my lower legs really tight. Of course I can make the soles of my feet touch my head while lying stomach down, I can even remove my glasses using my feet that way. (And yes, I am aware there are other more practical ways to remove my glasses, which doesn't require me to lie on the floor and flash my underwear to the world.)
4) I can stand upright then bend my back backwards until my palms touch the floor. I did this regularly when I was in my early teens, for reasons still unknown to myself up to now.
5) I can (uh, make it I could fake an accurate French accent when I was 15 and studying the language. My French teacher who was a French man (surprise!! I bet you thought he was Padangnese) actually gave me a hearty applause after I finished reading a passage aloud. It touched me so much because that was the first time, and of course the only time in my life, that somebody gave me an applause.
6) I can read music notes, in fact my prima vista is good, but I don't have the mental strength required to actually perform music on stage. Like many other failed music students, I brag about my mediocre music ability, pretending that I am really good at it.
7) I can do perfect humiliation of myself in tennis courts. My coach would stare at my perfect skill of hitting the air, and say gently: "All right, you are here to play tennis, which means you take a good hard look at the ball coming your way, and..hit it! Okay?"
"Okay!" I'd say enthusiastically.
Then I took a good hard look at the ball coming my way while holding the racket in perfect grip, moved a foot forward, moved my hand in a perfect arched-swing towards the ball, and hit the air. Gracefully.
8) I can add, substract, multiply, and divide numbers by heart quickly and continuously. Being a daughter of a forensic accountant who continually adds up and substracts numbers subconciously, at a very early age I was already used to basic algebra. I was shocked when at the age of 19, my dad said "You're doing linear algebra at university? Geez..that's hard!"
And I was like: "Aren't you the one who keeps pushing algebra into my brains????"
Up to now, whenever I am caught up in a traffic jam, I'd start adding, substracting, multiplying, and dividing the ID numbers of cars surrounding me. Dorky, I know. Eerie, even.
9)I can make killer peanut cookies, doughnuts, and this beef-liver stew in spicy coconut milk. But I only made each of them once in my life time.
10) I can finish 300 grams of chocolate in one go, without feeling sick. Or is it 450 grams? I'm talking about big blocks here. Big blocks of delicious choc. Big. Blocks.
Okay, enough narcissism for one day, so I'll stop here. It's amazing that you've read this far. I can hug you for that. I really can.
2) I can read and write Arabic letters, but I only know the meaning of maybe 15-20 Arabic words. So in a way the knowledge of Arabic letters is one of my many useless knowledge, but I am secretly happy having this particular useless knowledge. Make it I am secretly happy having ALL of my useless knowledge. (Yes, including the one about knowing what a wombat is.)
3) I can stand upright then bow all the way down and plant my lips to my knees, and hold that position by embracing my lower legs really tight. Of course I can make the soles of my feet touch my head while lying stomach down, I can even remove my glasses using my feet that way. (And yes, I am aware there are other more practical ways to remove my glasses, which doesn't require me to lie on the floor and flash my underwear to the world.)
4) I can stand upright then bend my back backwards until my palms touch the floor. I did this regularly when I was in my early teens, for reasons still unknown to myself up to now.
5) I can (uh, make it I could fake an accurate French accent when I was 15 and studying the language. My French teacher who was a French man (surprise!! I bet you thought he was Padangnese) actually gave me a hearty applause after I finished reading a passage aloud. It touched me so much because that was the first time, and of course the only time in my life, that somebody gave me an applause.
6) I can read music notes, in fact my prima vista is good, but I don't have the mental strength required to actually perform music on stage. Like many other failed music students, I brag about my mediocre music ability, pretending that I am really good at it.
7) I can do perfect humiliation of myself in tennis courts. My coach would stare at my perfect skill of hitting the air, and say gently: "All right, you are here to play tennis, which means you take a good hard look at the ball coming your way, and..hit it! Okay?"
"Okay!" I'd say enthusiastically.
Then I took a good hard look at the ball coming my way while holding the racket in perfect grip, moved a foot forward, moved my hand in a perfect arched-swing towards the ball, and hit the air. Gracefully.
8) I can add, substract, multiply, and divide numbers by heart quickly and continuously. Being a daughter of a forensic accountant who continually adds up and substracts numbers subconciously, at a very early age I was already used to basic algebra. I was shocked when at the age of 19, my dad said "You're doing linear algebra at university? Geez..that's hard!"
And I was like: "Aren't you the one who keeps pushing algebra into my brains????"
Up to now, whenever I am caught up in a traffic jam, I'd start adding, substracting, multiplying, and dividing the ID numbers of cars surrounding me. Dorky, I know. Eerie, even.
9)I can make killer peanut cookies, doughnuts, and this beef-liver stew in spicy coconut milk. But I only made each of them once in my life time.
10) I can finish 300 grams of chocolate in one go, without feeling sick. Or is it 450 grams? I'm talking about big blocks here. Big blocks of delicious choc. Big. Blocks.
Okay, enough narcissism for one day, so I'll stop here. It's amazing that you've read this far. I can hug you for that. I really can.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
WAR STORY
I am not a fan of wars.
As a 9-year-old I watched a movie titled Eleny, or was it Elenie, and stayed awake all night in fright. Eleny was the name of the main character in that war-movie, a mother of several kids during World War II. The scene that kept playing in my head that night was the one when Eleny, upon refusing to tell something to some soldiers, was tied up sitting down, her bare-feet put up, and the soldiers...they bashed her soles using a big chunky piece of wood --with big chunky nails stuck on it.
I kept playing that scene in my head.
Of wood coming repeatedly to her soles.
Of the sound of nails biting into flesh.
Of her screams.
Of the sound of nails taken out of flesh.
Oh the sound of nails biting into flesh, again.
Of her screams.
Again.
And again.
"I'm scared," I told my mom. "That scene. I'm scared."
"It's just a movie," Mom soothed me. But I knew better. I knew it was just a movie. I knew, the real war was much worse than it. My grandmother told me so. She knew better. She had lived through Japanese occupancy in 1942-1945. She was a beautiful young woman living in so much pain then.
And that frightful night -- it wasn't only frightful because I couldn't erase the scene from my head. It was frightful because it was the first time I knew something else about myself.
It was the first time I realised that I had a thing for violence.
How do I put this?
Violence...arouses me.
That particular scene pumped my blood, sending spasm all over my body. It warmed my lower body. I thought it was because of the fright. And I thought I was gonna pee in my pants out of fright.
I thought my bladder was full and I'd have to go to the toilet to relieve myself.
But it wasn't that. It wasn't at all.
That scene kept playing in my head, and I got warmer each time.
I touched the soles of my feet...imagining what Eleny must have felt being beaten..imagining what the soldiers felt when they took turns bashing her.
And I imagined somebody beating me up.
And I imagined beating somebody up.
And I got warmer.
I am not a fan of wars.
I am so ashamed of the fact that I could not stop staring at the pictures of the Abu Ghraib incident.
Like -- I saw this picture in a magazine of one soldier torturing another, and, God, it was like -- how do I put this?
Violence arouses me.
Please God forgive me.
War movies, war news, now I always try to avoid them like I do a disease.
I don't like seeing people hurting.
Not even in a movie.
Let alone in real life.
I am not a fan of wars.
I am so ashamed of the fact that violence arouses me -- but sadly, that fact remains.
As a 9-year-old I watched a movie titled Eleny, or was it Elenie, and stayed awake all night in fright. Eleny was the name of the main character in that war-movie, a mother of several kids during World War II. The scene that kept playing in my head that night was the one when Eleny, upon refusing to tell something to some soldiers, was tied up sitting down, her bare-feet put up, and the soldiers...they bashed her soles using a big chunky piece of wood --with big chunky nails stuck on it.
I kept playing that scene in my head.
Of wood coming repeatedly to her soles.
Of the sound of nails biting into flesh.
Of her screams.
Of the sound of nails taken out of flesh.
Oh the sound of nails biting into flesh, again.
Of her screams.
Again.
And again.
"I'm scared," I told my mom. "That scene. I'm scared."
"It's just a movie," Mom soothed me. But I knew better. I knew it was just a movie. I knew, the real war was much worse than it. My grandmother told me so. She knew better. She had lived through Japanese occupancy in 1942-1945. She was a beautiful young woman living in so much pain then.
And that frightful night -- it wasn't only frightful because I couldn't erase the scene from my head. It was frightful because it was the first time I knew something else about myself.
It was the first time I realised that I had a thing for violence.
How do I put this?
Violence...arouses me.
That particular scene pumped my blood, sending spasm all over my body. It warmed my lower body. I thought it was because of the fright. And I thought I was gonna pee in my pants out of fright.
I thought my bladder was full and I'd have to go to the toilet to relieve myself.
But it wasn't that. It wasn't at all.
That scene kept playing in my head, and I got warmer each time.
I touched the soles of my feet...imagining what Eleny must have felt being beaten..imagining what the soldiers felt when they took turns bashing her.
And I imagined somebody beating me up.
And I imagined beating somebody up.
And I got warmer.
I am not a fan of wars.
I am so ashamed of the fact that I could not stop staring at the pictures of the Abu Ghraib incident.
Like -- I saw this picture in a magazine of one soldier torturing another, and, God, it was like -- how do I put this?
Violence arouses me.
Please God forgive me.
War movies, war news, now I always try to avoid them like I do a disease.
I don't like seeing people hurting.
Not even in a movie.
Let alone in real life.
I am not a fan of wars.
I am so ashamed of the fact that violence arouses me -- but sadly, that fact remains.
Monday, May 09, 2005
ANOTHER CONCERT -- AND THE BINTARO HALF-NAKED MAD WOMAN
This was suppossed to be a very detailed post on a saxophone concert my friend and I went to two weeks ago, and the half-naked mad woman who stood in front of my car, refusing to budge, demanding money, somewhere during our ride home.
But this isn't going to be one.
Because whenever I tried to type all those details down, I realised over and over again that the concert wasn't really important. My friend isn't really a friend. The half-naked mad woman might very well not mad at all, although she was really half-naked.
That concert was an escape.
I remember I was tired and sleepy, but once the music began, I sat up and lean forward in my seat, my eyes fixated at the musicians, and very surprisingly, my usually-hollow breathing fell in rhythm with the saxophonist deep, concentrated breathing. It was my perfect escape from all the chaos happening that day to me: rude students, flawed logics, thick books, cynical friends, bright yellow office doors, broken glass in the toilet, proposals to hand out in four weeks' time, a glass of tea when all I wanted was fine coffee.
My friend was an escape.
He is my escape, and in the back of my mind I know that I am his escape too. I'm not sure what I was trying to escape from, but he sure was a comforting escape. I thought I knew what he was escaping from. (Boy, I was wrong.)
He told me the reason of his escape, and asked me mine. I did what I do best: I lied to his face. Now I guess I'll have to plan another escape, this time from myself.
That half-naked mad woman might be escaping herself too. (I lay in bed that night, trying to picture myself standing half-naked on the street, begging for money. Somehow the picture makes sense.)
"She," hissed my friend, "is as nutty as a fruit-cake."
"She is not," I insisted. "She might be more normal than the two of us blend together."
He laughed, telling me to be careful because she might turn up in front of my house that night. I shuddered, because the night was dark, and she looked horrible, with shaved head and a scar on her face, as if she walked right out of a horror movie.
"She'll be waiting for you in front of your carport!!!" teased my friend.
"She is NOTTT!!!" I protested. It wasn't until very much later that I realised how childish I must have sounded, and it turned my stomach.
But my friend was right.
The half-naked mad woman turned up in my house that night.
I saw her, the half-naked mad woman, lying in my bed, clutching at her heart, humming to the tune she had heard in the concert earlier that night.
She had noticed the way her friend touched her, and she had the urge to escape. But she didn't know where to turn.
She had the insight to stand right in front of her friend, refusing to budge, demanding more time.
But this isn't going to be one.
Because whenever I tried to type all those details down, I realised over and over again that the concert wasn't really important. My friend isn't really a friend. The half-naked mad woman might very well not mad at all, although she was really half-naked.
That concert was an escape.
I remember I was tired and sleepy, but once the music began, I sat up and lean forward in my seat, my eyes fixated at the musicians, and very surprisingly, my usually-hollow breathing fell in rhythm with the saxophonist deep, concentrated breathing. It was my perfect escape from all the chaos happening that day to me: rude students, flawed logics, thick books, cynical friends, bright yellow office doors, broken glass in the toilet, proposals to hand out in four weeks' time, a glass of tea when all I wanted was fine coffee.
My friend was an escape.
He is my escape, and in the back of my mind I know that I am his escape too. I'm not sure what I was trying to escape from, but he sure was a comforting escape. I thought I knew what he was escaping from. (Boy, I was wrong.)
He told me the reason of his escape, and asked me mine. I did what I do best: I lied to his face. Now I guess I'll have to plan another escape, this time from myself.
That half-naked mad woman might be escaping herself too. (I lay in bed that night, trying to picture myself standing half-naked on the street, begging for money. Somehow the picture makes sense.)
"She," hissed my friend, "is as nutty as a fruit-cake."
"She is not," I insisted. "She might be more normal than the two of us blend together."
He laughed, telling me to be careful because she might turn up in front of my house that night. I shuddered, because the night was dark, and she looked horrible, with shaved head and a scar on her face, as if she walked right out of a horror movie.
"She'll be waiting for you in front of your carport!!!" teased my friend.
"She is NOTTT!!!" I protested. It wasn't until very much later that I realised how childish I must have sounded, and it turned my stomach.
But my friend was right.
The half-naked mad woman turned up in my house that night.
I saw her, the half-naked mad woman, lying in my bed, clutching at her heart, humming to the tune she had heard in the concert earlier that night.
She had noticed the way her friend touched her, and she had the urge to escape. But she didn't know where to turn.
She had the insight to stand right in front of her friend, refusing to budge, demanding more time.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
HAPPY..UMM...KARTINI'S DAY..WELL...
And one day, somebody in the audience here today..would follow my footstep to be the spouse of the next US President..and I wish him well.
--Barbara Bush, giving a graduation day speech in front of rows and rows of happy-faced youngsters, most of whom were females.
***
I caught a glimpse of that speech on TV some time back, and couldn't help thinking that Barbara herself might realize that she was making a lip service. A female US President? Come on. I mean, COME ON.
We Indonesians really did have a female president, though. And that is because Indonesian females are powerful. That power comes from the long, hard training since our childhood, in the form of Kartini's day competitions.
The competition ranges from kebaya contest to speech contest; and of course: cooking competition which is only for men. The winner of the kebaya contest is the best looking female, or the one who wears the most complicated traditional kebaya (with the perfect fake hair bun, the perfect brooch, the tightest corset), or the combination of the two.
The winner of the speech contest is the one who says "Kartini, our Mother", "women emancipation", "women values", more than 10 times in one go.
And of course, I never give a damn to the winners of the cooking competition.
Oh, please don't get me wrong. I have no doubt that Kartini is one special lady. I'm happy her birthday is one of the most celebrated day in Indonesia.
I have no objection towards kebaya contest, the way I never have objection towards the fact that upon acknowledging Geneve Agreement (which binds countries to have females in ministry-level positions), Indonesia put a female to fill in the position of the newly-created "The State Ministry of Women Roles Issues".
I have no objection, really, that that state-ministry body, apart from being hopelessly useless, also cries out the fact that Indonesians think females are sub-humans who needs help from the government to merely define their roles in the society.
I have no objection that Amina Wadud has to face death punishment for claiming that a muslim woman too, can be an Imam during jemaah prayers, with men praying behind her as her makmums.
I'm not complaining here, hey, I know that the world isn't a fair place, and I have no objection about that.
I have no objection that when I take too long to park my car, drivers behind me don't only say "stupid slow driver!" but also have to spit out "woman driver! no wonder!".
Hell yes, woman driver I am, as female as your momma at home, Boys.
I have no objection being called "spinster", sometimes behind my back, sometimes to my face; I only wonder why that word only applies to females.
I have no objection about comments like "Of course she's chosen for that, she's a spinster! She doesn't have anybody to take care of, she has no life!!", thrown into my face when people heard that I was short-listed for a promotion, or a scholarship; I only wonder why such hurtful comments almost always come from fellow females.
I have no objection that Siti Musdah Mulia's hard work of coming up with a draft of Islamic Law Compilations in a new-light of female perspective got flushed down the toilet by angry male ulamas; I know her work was too good to be true anyway.
I can bear living in this men's world, really.
I can stand being lower-class earth citizen.
I can stand being paid 60 cents for a man's dollar.
I can even stand watching one more Kartini's day parade without vomiting my breakfast, my lunch, my dinner, my heart, my anger, all over the floor.
When all sexism pains me too much, I'd just bow my head a little -- look at my developed breasts, and get my boost of instant happiness.
Hell yes, I have no objection whatsoever about being a female.
Happy April Fool's day, may you and I stay foolish all our lives.
--Barbara Bush, giving a graduation day speech in front of rows and rows of happy-faced youngsters, most of whom were females.
***
I caught a glimpse of that speech on TV some time back, and couldn't help thinking that Barbara herself might realize that she was making a lip service. A female US President? Come on. I mean, COME ON.
We Indonesians really did have a female president, though. And that is because Indonesian females are powerful. That power comes from the long, hard training since our childhood, in the form of Kartini's day competitions.
The competition ranges from kebaya contest to speech contest; and of course: cooking competition which is only for men. The winner of the kebaya contest is the best looking female, or the one who wears the most complicated traditional kebaya (with the perfect fake hair bun, the perfect brooch, the tightest corset), or the combination of the two.
The winner of the speech contest is the one who says "Kartini, our Mother", "women emancipation", "women values", more than 10 times in one go.
And of course, I never give a damn to the winners of the cooking competition.
Oh, please don't get me wrong. I have no doubt that Kartini is one special lady. I'm happy her birthday is one of the most celebrated day in Indonesia.
I have no objection towards kebaya contest, the way I never have objection towards the fact that upon acknowledging Geneve Agreement (which binds countries to have females in ministry-level positions), Indonesia put a female to fill in the position of the newly-created "The State Ministry of Women Roles Issues".
I have no objection, really, that that state-ministry body, apart from being hopelessly useless, also cries out the fact that Indonesians think females are sub-humans who needs help from the government to merely define their roles in the society.
I have no objection that Amina Wadud has to face death punishment for claiming that a muslim woman too, can be an Imam during jemaah prayers, with men praying behind her as her makmums.
I'm not complaining here, hey, I know that the world isn't a fair place, and I have no objection about that.
I have no objection that when I take too long to park my car, drivers behind me don't only say "stupid slow driver!" but also have to spit out "woman driver! no wonder!".
Hell yes, woman driver I am, as female as your momma at home, Boys.
I have no objection being called "spinster", sometimes behind my back, sometimes to my face; I only wonder why that word only applies to females.
I have no objection about comments like "Of course she's chosen for that, she's a spinster! She doesn't have anybody to take care of, she has no life!!", thrown into my face when people heard that I was short-listed for a promotion, or a scholarship; I only wonder why such hurtful comments almost always come from fellow females.
I have no objection that Siti Musdah Mulia's hard work of coming up with a draft of Islamic Law Compilations in a new-light of female perspective got flushed down the toilet by angry male ulamas; I know her work was too good to be true anyway.
I can bear living in this men's world, really.
I can stand being lower-class earth citizen.
I can stand being paid 60 cents for a man's dollar.
I can even stand watching one more Kartini's day parade without vomiting my breakfast, my lunch, my dinner, my heart, my anger, all over the floor.
When all sexism pains me too much, I'd just bow my head a little -- look at my developed breasts, and get my boost of instant happiness.
Hell yes, I have no objection whatsoever about being a female.
Happy April Fool's day, may you and I stay foolish all our lives.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
ENCHANTED EVENING
I had a chance to see Ananda Sukarlan's piano solo performance some time back. It was a show of human genius, hard work, and dedication -- I wonder how a person of his quality could manage to stay so humble.
The show was free of charge, and the smallish place was packed with mostly fashionable youngsters in their early 20's.
When Ananda greeted us all and said that he was gonna play contemporary music (mostly of Spanish composers, I think), my heart sank a bit. Well, perhaps I'm a country-bumpkin after all, because I expected him to play Chopin or Bach.
Still it was great witnessing a great musician performing. During break-time, none of the audience left the room. "Aren't you hungry? Wouldn't anyone grab a snack before we continue?" the friendly pianist asked.
Nobody moved, so he said "Why don't I play something different..." and began playing Chopin's Nocturne a bit. To my surprise, the audience laughed, and he laughed as well, saying "Ughh..I don't want to play that...I know you're bored with it..I'm here to play contemporary pieces after all."
My heart sank even lower.
I wanted him to play classic, romantic, or baroque music so much..and I knew some people in the audience wanted the same thing. Maybe Ananda could sense it, because he at last removed his music sheets and said "I'll play Mozart's Romansa..if you're bored with this, you could step out and get your dinner perhaps.."
So there I was, feeling thoroughly happy at last.
After the break, he was back to playing contemporary music again (arrr!). "I need Stanley to turn the book-page for me," he said, searching for this Stanley in the audience. "Stanley?? If you could give me a hand.."
My second surprise of the evening was when I saw "Stanley" climbed down from the audience seat and onto the stage. I guess I had expected him to be older, so seeing that he was still in his late teens, very good looking in his white T and faded jeans, was a kinda jaw-dropping experience.
"He was so young!!" I wanted to whisper to my friend who was there with me, "and to be able to turn the pages for Ananda, means he must be familiar with the notes, which means he must have been practising with him, which means he must be a top-level piano student, which..."
But I kept my mouth shut, and watched Stanley tapped his foot and nodded in rhythm with the music, and turned the pages for Ananda in time, for the rest of the evening.
Oh my God.
I must admit that had Stanley played classical guitar or violin, I wouldn't have been that amazed. Not that playing guitar or violin is easier than playing the piano, but piano is an instrument very close to my heart.
I know nothing about playing guitar or violin, but I have spent two-third of my life trying to learn how to play the piano well -- to no avail.
At the end of the evening, while Ananda bowed and thanked the audience, the clapping wouldn't stop, people started demanding a "bonus" performance, and I told my friend how I wished he would play classical again.
"What do you want me to play? I didn't prepare a bonus," Ananda said.
"CHOPIN!!!" I wanted to scream. But I was too shy. Then I got yet another surprise:
"CHOPIN!! CHOPINNNN!!!" screamed a very beautiful girl behind me. She was in her early 20's and dressed casually sexy: I bet she'd look even sexier when she sat on her piano playing Chopin.
"I'll play Beethoven..but I didn't practise this," Ananda said, and the audience chuckled.
Ooohh Beethoven is okay. Very okay.
I almost purred with near-orgasmic ecstasy listening to it.
But the real orgasmic experience was seeing how -- after the show ended -- the sexy girl was joined by her friends (who had been sitting at the other part of the tiny concert room) and they all chatted enthusiastically about the show. I knew that they knew what they were talking about.
It touched me to see a roomful of young classical music enthusiasts; I wondered whether in a few years' time I would be attending their concerts.
The show was free of charge, and the smallish place was packed with mostly fashionable youngsters in their early 20's.
When Ananda greeted us all and said that he was gonna play contemporary music (mostly of Spanish composers, I think), my heart sank a bit. Well, perhaps I'm a country-bumpkin after all, because I expected him to play Chopin or Bach.
Still it was great witnessing a great musician performing. During break-time, none of the audience left the room. "Aren't you hungry? Wouldn't anyone grab a snack before we continue?" the friendly pianist asked.
Nobody moved, so he said "Why don't I play something different..." and began playing Chopin's Nocturne a bit. To my surprise, the audience laughed, and he laughed as well, saying "Ughh..I don't want to play that...I know you're bored with it..I'm here to play contemporary pieces after all."
My heart sank even lower.
I wanted him to play classic, romantic, or baroque music so much..and I knew some people in the audience wanted the same thing. Maybe Ananda could sense it, because he at last removed his music sheets and said "I'll play Mozart's Romansa..if you're bored with this, you could step out and get your dinner perhaps.."
So there I was, feeling thoroughly happy at last.
After the break, he was back to playing contemporary music again (arrr!). "I need Stanley to turn the book-page for me," he said, searching for this Stanley in the audience. "Stanley?? If you could give me a hand.."
My second surprise of the evening was when I saw "Stanley" climbed down from the audience seat and onto the stage. I guess I had expected him to be older, so seeing that he was still in his late teens, very good looking in his white T and faded jeans, was a kinda jaw-dropping experience.
"He was so young!!" I wanted to whisper to my friend who was there with me, "and to be able to turn the pages for Ananda, means he must be familiar with the notes, which means he must have been practising with him, which means he must be a top-level piano student, which..."
But I kept my mouth shut, and watched Stanley tapped his foot and nodded in rhythm with the music, and turned the pages for Ananda in time, for the rest of the evening.
Oh my God.
I must admit that had Stanley played classical guitar or violin, I wouldn't have been that amazed. Not that playing guitar or violin is easier than playing the piano, but piano is an instrument very close to my heart.
I know nothing about playing guitar or violin, but I have spent two-third of my life trying to learn how to play the piano well -- to no avail.
At the end of the evening, while Ananda bowed and thanked the audience, the clapping wouldn't stop, people started demanding a "bonus" performance, and I told my friend how I wished he would play classical again.
"What do you want me to play? I didn't prepare a bonus," Ananda said.
"CHOPIN!!!" I wanted to scream. But I was too shy. Then I got yet another surprise:
"CHOPIN!! CHOPINNNN!!!" screamed a very beautiful girl behind me. She was in her early 20's and dressed casually sexy: I bet she'd look even sexier when she sat on her piano playing Chopin.
"I'll play Beethoven..but I didn't practise this," Ananda said, and the audience chuckled.
Ooohh Beethoven is okay. Very okay.
I almost purred with near-orgasmic ecstasy listening to it.
But the real orgasmic experience was seeing how -- after the show ended -- the sexy girl was joined by her friends (who had been sitting at the other part of the tiny concert room) and they all chatted enthusiastically about the show. I knew that they knew what they were talking about.
It touched me to see a roomful of young classical music enthusiasts; I wondered whether in a few years' time I would be attending their concerts.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
LITTLE SURPRISES
I encountered 2 little surprises while going to work this morning. The first was this sign, which I must have passed thousands of time without ever paying attention to:
MASSAGE “SAKTI”
IBU SUM
SK GUB. 456-7583
Ohmygawd Ibu Sum…and I guess Pak Gubernur issued that special SK with the special-easy-to remember number because he is a satisfied customer of yours, perhaps? Tsk tsk. One look at that sign and I could memorise the SK number instantly. To think that the last SK I saw was numbered something like No. XX-2004/SK-REK/XIV-217/tralala/trilili/not-a-single-easy-digit-to-remember.
The second was I caught the end of a pop song, Love Me For A Reason, aired on a broadcast station. A sappy sweet song that makes your teeth ache. I haven’t heard that song for 10 years, maybe. Hearing it on air reminded me of the last days my Grandma spent on earth.
MASSAGE “SAKTI”
IBU SUM
SK GUB. 456-7583
Ohmygawd Ibu Sum…and I guess Pak Gubernur issued that special SK with the special-easy-to remember number because he is a satisfied customer of yours, perhaps? Tsk tsk. One look at that sign and I could memorise the SK number instantly. To think that the last SK I saw was numbered something like No. XX-2004/SK-REK/XIV-217/tralala/trilili/not-a-single-easy-digit-to-remember.
The second was I caught the end of a pop song, Love Me For A Reason, aired on a broadcast station. A sappy sweet song that makes your teeth ache. I haven’t heard that song for 10 years, maybe. Hearing it on air reminded me of the last days my Grandma spent on earth.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
I DON’T KNOW
I don’t know, I trotted blindly next to you all over the mall, I remember trying some pants, I remember you asking me whether I’d like something to eat, I remember having a chicken burger somewhere, eating the deliciously salty bites while cigarette smoke filled my eyes, I remember laughing at your jokes, I remember poking into your daily routines, your job, your boss – I remember telling you something about my routines, the lectures and the students, I remember telling you I was in awe with this superbly genius guy in maths class who was so calm, so serene, I remember you laughed when you heard that, saying that you were also calm and serene, but you were not superbly genius, especially in maths, and you said whether I would ever pay attention to you if you were in my class, because you were the quiet type who blended into the background, you said.
I don’t know, I said, isn’t it a pity, I said, sometimes you don’t pay attention to a very attractive person because he or she is too quiet, and you pay too much attention to the most talkative person in class but he or she, alas, happens to be the biggest smart-ass as well.
I don’t know, I trotted blindly next to you all over the mall, I remember how easy it was to make you laugh, I remember it didn’t take much effort to make our conversation flow, I remember waiting for the second when you’d finally call me a geek, but it didn’t happen. I remember it had been years since I had a conversation this enjoyable, this easy, with somebody so kind and soft-spoken.
I remember thinking about once paying attention to the most talkative person in my universe, only to find out later that he also is the biggest smart-ass as well.
I don’t know.
I don’t know, I said, isn’t it a pity, I said, sometimes you don’t pay attention to a very attractive person because he or she is too quiet, and you pay too much attention to the most talkative person in class but he or she, alas, happens to be the biggest smart-ass as well.
I don’t know, I trotted blindly next to you all over the mall, I remember how easy it was to make you laugh, I remember it didn’t take much effort to make our conversation flow, I remember waiting for the second when you’d finally call me a geek, but it didn’t happen. I remember it had been years since I had a conversation this enjoyable, this easy, with somebody so kind and soft-spoken.
I remember thinking about once paying attention to the most talkative person in my universe, only to find out later that he also is the biggest smart-ass as well.
I don’t know.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
KEPARAT COINCIDENCES
I read Dion’s short poem of coincidences and significances with great interest, and spent quite some time thinking about it. Little did I know, just a few days after that, I came across several coincidences and significances too amazing to ignore.
***
Keparat dear:
I know you use drugs, albeit only occasionally, but I know you do.
I know what you look like naked.
I know you are smart, but not quite as smart as you pretend to be.
I know what types of women you always fall easily for.
I know what you like and dislike in bed.
I know how you start a lovemaking session, how you look during it, how you end it.
I watch your every movement and word through the eyes of a liar, trying to find traces of inconsistencies. I couldn’t find one. You’ve been too consistent all these years: even a great liar like me can’t possibly make exactly zero mistakes, zero inconsistencies. So I decided that you were an honest person.
I didn’t know that you were a liar.
***
COINCIDENCE I
Around two months ago, a Friend asked me to a concert. It sounded like a good idea, so I agreed. But a few days after that, because I was a bit sick, and simply a little reluctant to have an evening out, I cancelled it. Friend said I still should go, because good music healed flu like a charm. I said no but no thanks, but I felt bad afterwards. I really felt that I shouldn’t have said yes in the first place, if I didn’t mean to.
COINCIDENCE II
Last week, Friend asked me to a similar concert. This time, I was determined to go. Through the web I knew, there was another concert at the same place, which I thought would be more interesting than the one he asked me to. He asked me to the Feb 24th event, and I was thinking about us going to the Feb 21st event instead. He said both ways are fine, and left the decision to me.
COINCIDENCE III
I decided that we should go to the Feb 24th event.
COINCIDENCE IV
I don’t know why, it might be gut feeling, animal instinct, or what-have-you, but there was a very strong inclination in me to go with him this time.
I felt like something might happen that day at the concert.
The feeling was so strong, that although for two days full before D-day I was down with a tummy ache, I decided to brave it out and still go with him.
COINCIDENCE V
Friend and I arrived early for the concert, so we sat at the courtyard chatting. Fifteen minutes before the show, the concert room was opened and people began filing into it. Friend asked whether I wanted to go inside. I said no, let us wait a few more minutes. Okay, then I’ll go to the restroom first, Friend said. I felt like I needed to go too, but decided against it.
It was then that I saw a figure that looked a lot like Keparat, walking hurriedly through the front gates of the building.
Hell, that person has the same built that he does, and he certainly walks like he does, I thought to myself, a bit unsure of myself.
Because he said he’d be back to South Pole 10 days ago. And I believed him, because I didn’t know he was a liar.
After our ugly argument, we stopped talking to each other and I assumed that he went back to South Pole without bothering to say goodbye to me.
As that figure took one more step into the courtyard, even from that distance, I knew it was him. Keparat himself. He was still in Jakarta.
COINCIDENCE VI
I looked fixated at him, thinking He is in Jakarta he is in Jakarta he is in Jakarta , not feeling angry, I was serene and peaceful, because at last I got to find out why I had a very strong gut-feeling to come to that concert.
By some unexplainable force, he looked sideways and locked eyes into mine.
We smiled knowingly at each other, waved a little wave.
***
In the car while heading home, I asked Friend whether coincidences existed.
“Of course,” he said, “Why did you ask that?”
“Because,” I said, “because at first I wanted to see the Feb 21st event, but I decided against it. Because I was a bit sick but decided to go to the concert anyway. And through the coincidences, tonight at the concert I saw somebody who wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“Did seeing that person have any significant impact on you, no matter how small?” asked Friend.
“Very much so,” I replied.
“Then it wasn’t a coincidence,” Friend concluded.
I didn’t quite get what he meant, so he gave me this explanation:
“Suppose you were strolling at a mall, and coincidentally saw somebody who wore the exact same shirt that you were wearing. If it were a coincidence, it’d stop at that point. But if you found out that person was an old friend you hadn’t met for a long time, and you ended up catching up with her, there was a significance in that. So I wouldn’t call it a coincidence.”
“You wouldn’t say it is a coincidence. So, you’d say it’s something that is meant to be?” I asked, amazed at this seemingly new theory.
“It is meant to be. Exactly. That’s what I meant,” he said.
***
I was meant to find out about your little lie, Keparat dear.
At the end of the concert tears filled up my eyes, no, not because you lied to me, but because sweet music always tends to bring tears into my eyes.
***
Keparat dear:
I know you use drugs, albeit only occasionally, but I know you do.
I know what you look like naked.
I know you are smart, but not quite as smart as you pretend to be.
I know what types of women you always fall easily for.
I know what you like and dislike in bed.
I know how you start a lovemaking session, how you look during it, how you end it.
I watch your every movement and word through the eyes of a liar, trying to find traces of inconsistencies. I couldn’t find one. You’ve been too consistent all these years: even a great liar like me can’t possibly make exactly zero mistakes, zero inconsistencies. So I decided that you were an honest person.
I didn’t know that you were a liar.
***
COINCIDENCE I
Around two months ago, a Friend asked me to a concert. It sounded like a good idea, so I agreed. But a few days after that, because I was a bit sick, and simply a little reluctant to have an evening out, I cancelled it. Friend said I still should go, because good music healed flu like a charm. I said no but no thanks, but I felt bad afterwards. I really felt that I shouldn’t have said yes in the first place, if I didn’t mean to.
COINCIDENCE II
Last week, Friend asked me to a similar concert. This time, I was determined to go. Through the web I knew, there was another concert at the same place, which I thought would be more interesting than the one he asked me to. He asked me to the Feb 24th event, and I was thinking about us going to the Feb 21st event instead. He said both ways are fine, and left the decision to me.
COINCIDENCE III
I decided that we should go to the Feb 24th event.
COINCIDENCE IV
I don’t know why, it might be gut feeling, animal instinct, or what-have-you, but there was a very strong inclination in me to go with him this time.
I felt like something might happen that day at the concert.
The feeling was so strong, that although for two days full before D-day I was down with a tummy ache, I decided to brave it out and still go with him.
COINCIDENCE V
Friend and I arrived early for the concert, so we sat at the courtyard chatting. Fifteen minutes before the show, the concert room was opened and people began filing into it. Friend asked whether I wanted to go inside. I said no, let us wait a few more minutes. Okay, then I’ll go to the restroom first, Friend said. I felt like I needed to go too, but decided against it.
It was then that I saw a figure that looked a lot like Keparat, walking hurriedly through the front gates of the building.
Hell, that person has the same built that he does, and he certainly walks like he does, I thought to myself, a bit unsure of myself.
Because he said he’d be back to South Pole 10 days ago. And I believed him, because I didn’t know he was a liar.
After our ugly argument, we stopped talking to each other and I assumed that he went back to South Pole without bothering to say goodbye to me.
As that figure took one more step into the courtyard, even from that distance, I knew it was him. Keparat himself. He was still in Jakarta.
COINCIDENCE VI
I looked fixated at him, thinking He is in Jakarta he is in Jakarta he is in Jakarta , not feeling angry, I was serene and peaceful, because at last I got to find out why I had a very strong gut-feeling to come to that concert.
By some unexplainable force, he looked sideways and locked eyes into mine.
We smiled knowingly at each other, waved a little wave.
***
In the car while heading home, I asked Friend whether coincidences existed.
“Of course,” he said, “Why did you ask that?”
“Because,” I said, “because at first I wanted to see the Feb 21st event, but I decided against it. Because I was a bit sick but decided to go to the concert anyway. And through the coincidences, tonight at the concert I saw somebody who wasn’t supposed to be here.”
“Did seeing that person have any significant impact on you, no matter how small?” asked Friend.
“Very much so,” I replied.
“Then it wasn’t a coincidence,” Friend concluded.
I didn’t quite get what he meant, so he gave me this explanation:
“Suppose you were strolling at a mall, and coincidentally saw somebody who wore the exact same shirt that you were wearing. If it were a coincidence, it’d stop at that point. But if you found out that person was an old friend you hadn’t met for a long time, and you ended up catching up with her, there was a significance in that. So I wouldn’t call it a coincidence.”
“You wouldn’t say it is a coincidence. So, you’d say it’s something that is meant to be?” I asked, amazed at this seemingly new theory.
“It is meant to be. Exactly. That’s what I meant,” he said.
***
I was meant to find out about your little lie, Keparat dear.
At the end of the concert tears filled up my eyes, no, not because you lied to me, but because sweet music always tends to bring tears into my eyes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)