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.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Monday, February 14, 2005
THE AJIP ROSIDI IN ME
I taught myself how to read many years ago, on a hot day when I was feeling alone. My sisters were at school, Mom was away with my baby bro, Dad was at work (as always), and Grandma was busy cooking.
I was less than 5 years old, capable of recognising alphabets and their sounds, without knowing how it all started. I didn’t know how to write my name, because of its English spelling. But I figured out myself how to write the nickname my parents gave me, because it is a simple three-letter word. This ability that I had to study things without others’ help, sadly, deteriorated a bit when I entered school and started having teachers.
Anyway, struggling to teach myself to read using my sister’s old book, I came across these lines written in big, bold letters:
ini kerbau
kerbau pak madi dua ekor
I ran hastily to Grandma, demanding angrily: “Am I wrong, or is it really written here ‘kerbau pak madi dua ekor?’ “
“Why, Honey, you read it correctly,” said Grandma.
“No. Impossible. Either I was wrong, or they printed the wrong name.”
“And why is it impossible?” Grandma chuckled.
“Because there is no such name as Pak Madi. That is a very ugly name. Impossible.”
Grandma broke out in laughter and the story of The Impossibly-Named Pak Madi circulated around our neighborhood for days.
Another day, while reading a more sophisticated book where there were two-letters consonants (i.e: Bobo magazine), I found a curious word: ‘d a g i n g’.
“Dagin---“ I read it, feeling it with my tongue. “Dagin—“ I knew this word. It was in my everyday vocabulary. Daging! Daging! But I hadn’t known it was spelled that way.
I ran to Grandma again, asking her to spell the word ‘d a g i n g’.
“D-A-G-I-NG”, she said, pronouncing the “ng” like a mosquito buzzing.
“Impossible!” I protested again. For two consonants to form one sound was too inconsistent to be possible for me. I had no words to explain it to my Grandma, but I knew if ‘a’ had one sound, ‘b’ had one sound, etc., then the sound of ‘ng’ had to have its own single alphabet. We shouldn’t have used two alphabets for a single sound.
To my eldest sister, I said: “We must make an alphabet for “ng”. Look, it can be this symbol here: “<”. And there must be an alphabet for “ny” too. We can use “>” as an alphabet having the “ny” sound. Because one alphabet makes one sound. We cannot use two alphabets, like “n” and “g” to make one sound.”
My sister looked at me with a horrified look in her face, as if I had just mentioned a dirty word. So I kept my mouth shut.
Until more than 25 years later.
Yesterday, in a column in Kompas daily, Ajip Rosidi wrote that using two alphabets to produce one sound is one of the many inconsistencies of EYD. “We should be brave enough to make our own alphabets,” he wrote further, “Vietnam for instance, uses many symbols comprehended only by the Vietnamese, in addition to the Latin alphabets.”
Reading that, I wanted to scream: I salute you,Brother Grandfather!
I wanted to scream to my sister: “Look!! Look!!! Somebody actually has the same idea with me, remember when I told you about the “<” and “>” symbols?”
I want to continue writi< this blog usi< that symbols I made up lo< time ago, but hell, conformist that I am, I’d rather not to puzzle my readers and keep my ego down instead.
Uhm.
It may take me 25 years to realise my idea has a sense in it, but still, the realisation feels nice. It’s nice knowing within the scattered foolishness which is my brain, I have a bit of Ajip Rosidi’s thinking inside of me.
I was less than 5 years old, capable of recognising alphabets and their sounds, without knowing how it all started. I didn’t know how to write my name, because of its English spelling. But I figured out myself how to write the nickname my parents gave me, because it is a simple three-letter word. This ability that I had to study things without others’ help, sadly, deteriorated a bit when I entered school and started having teachers.
Anyway, struggling to teach myself to read using my sister’s old book, I came across these lines written in big, bold letters:
ini kerbau
kerbau pak madi dua ekor
I ran hastily to Grandma, demanding angrily: “Am I wrong, or is it really written here ‘kerbau pak madi dua ekor?’ “
“Why, Honey, you read it correctly,” said Grandma.
“No. Impossible. Either I was wrong, or they printed the wrong name.”
“And why is it impossible?” Grandma chuckled.
“Because there is no such name as Pak Madi. That is a very ugly name. Impossible.”
Grandma broke out in laughter and the story of The Impossibly-Named Pak Madi circulated around our neighborhood for days.
Another day, while reading a more sophisticated book where there were two-letters consonants (i.e: Bobo magazine), I found a curious word: ‘d a g i n g’.
“Dagin---“ I read it, feeling it with my tongue. “Dagin—“ I knew this word. It was in my everyday vocabulary. Daging! Daging! But I hadn’t known it was spelled that way.
I ran to Grandma again, asking her to spell the word ‘d a g i n g’.
“D-A-G-I-NG”, she said, pronouncing the “ng” like a mosquito buzzing.
“Impossible!” I protested again. For two consonants to form one sound was too inconsistent to be possible for me. I had no words to explain it to my Grandma, but I knew if ‘a’ had one sound, ‘b’ had one sound, etc., then the sound of ‘ng’ had to have its own single alphabet. We shouldn’t have used two alphabets for a single sound.
To my eldest sister, I said: “We must make an alphabet for “ng”. Look, it can be this symbol here: “<”. And there must be an alphabet for “ny” too. We can use “>” as an alphabet having the “ny” sound. Because one alphabet makes one sound. We cannot use two alphabets, like “n” and “g” to make one sound.”
My sister looked at me with a horrified look in her face, as if I had just mentioned a dirty word. So I kept my mouth shut.
Until more than 25 years later.
Yesterday, in a column in Kompas daily, Ajip Rosidi wrote that using two alphabets to produce one sound is one of the many inconsistencies of EYD. “We should be brave enough to make our own alphabets,” he wrote further, “Vietnam for instance, uses many symbols comprehended only by the Vietnamese, in addition to the Latin alphabets.”
Reading that, I wanted to scream: I salute you,
I wanted to scream to my sister: “Look!! Look!!! Somebody actually has the same idea with me, remember when I told you about the “<” and “>” symbols?”
I want to continue writi< this blog usi< that symbols I made up lo< time ago, but hell, conformist that I am, I’d rather not to puzzle my readers and keep my ego down instead.
Uhm.
It may take me 25 years to realise my idea has a sense in it, but still, the realisation feels nice. It’s nice knowing within the scattered foolishness which is my brain, I have a bit of Ajip Rosidi’s thinking inside of me.
Friday, February 11, 2005
ADDING SALT TO AN OPEN WOUND
Today is Thursday, a holiday of Hijriah New Year.
Last Tuesday, at 7:08 PM, Keparat called and asked me out.
I agreed to pick him up.
We went to a market near his house where he bought take-away dinner.
We went back to his house.
He finished dinner.
Then we went upstairs to his bedroom.
It was a disaster.
I was willing to turn a blind eye on it. He wasn’t.
Oh my God, I don’t know what to write.
It’s official that he dumped me; well I could see this coming, I wasn’t sure about this relationship myself, but I was willing to work it out. I had chosen to believe him. I had chosen to trust his words. The first day he was here, I saw a bad sign. But I ignored it. I had told myself long ago to concentrate on his good points, and not pick on his bad sides. Because I have my bad sides I’d rather him not to pick on, too.
Ending any relationship is hard, foolish as I am, I realise that. It’s just that this relationship has been in my mind and heart for almost exactly 5 years; ending it feels like having my brains and heart yanked out of my skull and chest without anaesthetics.
To add insult to injury, before dumping me he had made me do the thing I normally wouldn’t do. Well I’m not as stupid as to do things I didn’t want to do; at that time, I was willing to do it. But, but-- Forget it. Too hard to elaborate.
And he added salt to an open wound by saying some things that really degrade me. Part of me wants to kneel down and beg him to give me another chance; another part says it’s high time to let go.
He wasn’t lying all this time, no. It’s just that I forgot that every word has a time-frame. He might say he wants me so bad, okay, but he never says how long that feeling will stay. He can promise me things, but promises don’t last. That is what I forgot.
(Limit waktu t mendekati t+t0. Integral tertentu fungsi (x) batas bawah t=0 batas atas t=2pi. Darn. Every single fucking thing has a time frame. Things only apply for a limited time. Damn limited time.)
And he still has the nerve to say if we are meant to be together, we’ll be together. And craps such as you are perfect, you have no flaws, but you won’t be able to handle a shithead like me. Is it me who are not willing to handle your handicaps, or is it you who are not willing to turn your head from my handicaps?
I told him to look me in the eye and say “I DON’T WANT YOU BECAUSE…” [fill the blanks with: ‘you are older than me’, ‘you are a boring person who doesn’t take alcohol and geeky beyond belief’, etc. Yes, I gave him those options. Especially the one about me being older, because he mentioned it twice this month.] And he said he couldn’t. I never said I didn’t want you, was all that he could muster.
But still, he degrades me so badly.
So badly.
So badly.
So badly I think I lost all my self-confidence and my self-esteem, if I ever had any.
Last Tuesday, at 7:08 PM, Keparat called and asked me out.
I agreed to pick him up.
We went to a market near his house where he bought take-away dinner.
We went back to his house.
He finished dinner.
Then we went upstairs to his bedroom.
It was a disaster.
I was willing to turn a blind eye on it. He wasn’t.
Oh my God, I don’t know what to write.
It’s official that he dumped me; well I could see this coming, I wasn’t sure about this relationship myself, but I was willing to work it out. I had chosen to believe him. I had chosen to trust his words. The first day he was here, I saw a bad sign. But I ignored it. I had told myself long ago to concentrate on his good points, and not pick on his bad sides. Because I have my bad sides I’d rather him not to pick on, too.
Ending any relationship is hard, foolish as I am, I realise that. It’s just that this relationship has been in my mind and heart for almost exactly 5 years; ending it feels like having my brains and heart yanked out of my skull and chest without anaesthetics.
To add insult to injury, before dumping me he had made me do the thing I normally wouldn’t do. Well I’m not as stupid as to do things I didn’t want to do; at that time, I was willing to do it. But, but-- Forget it. Too hard to elaborate.
And he added salt to an open wound by saying some things that really degrade me. Part of me wants to kneel down and beg him to give me another chance; another part says it’s high time to let go.
He wasn’t lying all this time, no. It’s just that I forgot that every word has a time-frame. He might say he wants me so bad, okay, but he never says how long that feeling will stay. He can promise me things, but promises don’t last. That is what I forgot.
(Limit waktu t mendekati t+t0. Integral tertentu fungsi (x) batas bawah t=0 batas atas t=2pi. Darn. Every single fucking thing has a time frame. Things only apply for a limited time. Damn limited time.)
And he still has the nerve to say if we are meant to be together, we’ll be together. And craps such as you are perfect, you have no flaws, but you won’t be able to handle a shithead like me. Is it me who are not willing to handle your handicaps, or is it you who are not willing to turn your head from my handicaps?
I told him to look me in the eye and say “I DON’T WANT YOU BECAUSE…” [fill the blanks with: ‘you are older than me’, ‘you are a boring person who doesn’t take alcohol and geeky beyond belief’, etc. Yes, I gave him those options. Especially the one about me being older, because he mentioned it twice this month.] And he said he couldn’t. I never said I didn’t want you, was all that he could muster.
But still, he degrades me so badly.
So badly.
So badly.
So badly I think I lost all my self-confidence and my self-esteem, if I ever had any.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
CATH AND KEPARAT
We sold Cathy yesterday. She had been an okay girl, but suddenly when the buyer had already paid for her, she refused to be started. My dad tried several times to start her, then she finally did, but—nobody could put her into gear. We tried the first gear and the reverse gear to no avail. I was feeling empty and sad at the same time. There she was: Cathy, my car for more than 10 years, who’s been with me through undergrad and grad schools, through seven different jobs, through two twisted relationships: she refused to budge, she refused to leave me. I, for one, couldn’t bear seeing her out of our gate forever. I was also reminded, for the umpteenth times, of the hugs I shared with N, with Keparat, and with D, inside the tiny compartment of hers. Call me a sentimental cry-baby. Go ahead, because I really am.
My Mom said I should let go. It sounded superstitious to me, but she was partly right. I wasn’t ready to let go. My sister told me to tell her to go. By that time I was feeling sick enough to agree with my sister: I looked at Cath and told her to go. Go, Honey. I thank you for your secure companion, and I’ll miss you.
With that, my bro-in-law finally managed to put her into gear, and drove her out of our gate. Then the buyer took over and drove her away, for good.
My dad said: “Oh my God, she is gone.”
I went into the bathroom, and drowned my pathetic sentimentality in a hot shower.
***
I spent six hours of Sunday with Keparat. We talked so much my head hurt. Especially when he asked me endless variations of the same question. At one point I just shouted for him to stop pressing me about and make me say the same thing for a million times, and he responded oh-so-logically with: “A million times? Not yet. Not even close.” And proceeded to ask me the very same question, again.
Keparat, yes, he is in Jakarta. Even I find it difficult to comprehend. He said I looked different, I looked so small compared to what he remembered. I think I’ve lost 3-4 kilograms since he left for South Pole. He has gained more than 10 kilograms himself, and he has turned into (*gulp*) a gym-enthusiast. Other than the physical difference he remains the same. He chain-smokes the same brand of cigarettes, dresses the same way, wears the same facial expressions, argues stubbornly just like he always does. He inflicts the same feelings in me: a mix of excitement and confusion with a lethal dose of love. His smile is the same. His touch ditto.
I find him as appealing as usual, if not more.
He talks in the same labyrinth-way, surprising me with dead-end questions and remarks, enquiring deeper and deeper into my tangled-logic. He’s more logical than I am and I realised with a start that I should really see the world the way he does, because his is the right way to analyse things.
I just can’t bear the thought that to accomplish exactly that, I have to be even bitter towards life.
Still I was intoxicated that night, I had too much sugary food to sweeten my tongue: I kept my sarcastic words to the minimum, and offered him more nice words than I could usually muster. He too was intoxicated by that brown and that green beverages, he talked on and on about his feelings, every now and then he paused to say: “Don’t believe me, I’m drunk. Forget I said all these,” and I decided to believe his every word anyway, because life is short. Too damn short not to feel happy in his company. Too damn short to be analysing at which exact moment his brains got drowned in alcohol and his words were no longer his. Too damn short for stupid arguments.
He downed my Coke before we left the place.
So when we kissed deeply in front of his gate that night, spending what felt like a second but actually was twenty minutes without pause, all I could taste was the familiar sweetness of Coca-Cola.
(Anytime, anywhere, even in your lover’s tongue, always Coca-Cola).
“Are you real? Are you really here or am I just about to wake up and find out that this is a dream?” I asked him. “I’m really here,” was what he said. And I decided to believe his words, because life is short.
Too. Damn. Short.
My Mom said I should let go. It sounded superstitious to me, but she was partly right. I wasn’t ready to let go. My sister told me to tell her to go. By that time I was feeling sick enough to agree with my sister: I looked at Cath and told her to go. Go, Honey. I thank you for your secure companion, and I’ll miss you.
With that, my bro-in-law finally managed to put her into gear, and drove her out of our gate. Then the buyer took over and drove her away, for good.
My dad said: “Oh my God, she is gone.”
I went into the bathroom, and drowned my pathetic sentimentality in a hot shower.
***
I spent six hours of Sunday with Keparat. We talked so much my head hurt. Especially when he asked me endless variations of the same question. At one point I just shouted for him to stop pressing me about and make me say the same thing for a million times, and he responded oh-so-logically with: “A million times? Not yet. Not even close.” And proceeded to ask me the very same question, again.
Keparat, yes, he is in Jakarta. Even I find it difficult to comprehend. He said I looked different, I looked so small compared to what he remembered. I think I’ve lost 3-4 kilograms since he left for South Pole. He has gained more than 10 kilograms himself, and he has turned into (*gulp*) a gym-enthusiast. Other than the physical difference he remains the same. He chain-smokes the same brand of cigarettes, dresses the same way, wears the same facial expressions, argues stubbornly just like he always does. He inflicts the same feelings in me: a mix of excitement and confusion with a lethal dose of love. His smile is the same. His touch ditto.
I find him as appealing as usual, if not more.
He talks in the same labyrinth-way, surprising me with dead-end questions and remarks, enquiring deeper and deeper into my tangled-logic. He’s more logical than I am and I realised with a start that I should really see the world the way he does, because his is the right way to analyse things.
I just can’t bear the thought that to accomplish exactly that, I have to be even bitter towards life.
Still I was intoxicated that night, I had too much sugary food to sweeten my tongue: I kept my sarcastic words to the minimum, and offered him more nice words than I could usually muster. He too was intoxicated by that brown and that green beverages, he talked on and on about his feelings, every now and then he paused to say: “Don’t believe me, I’m drunk. Forget I said all these,” and I decided to believe his every word anyway, because life is short. Too damn short not to feel happy in his company. Too damn short to be analysing at which exact moment his brains got drowned in alcohol and his words were no longer his. Too damn short for stupid arguments.
He downed my Coke before we left the place.
So when we kissed deeply in front of his gate that night, spending what felt like a second but actually was twenty minutes without pause, all I could taste was the familiar sweetness of Coca-Cola.
(Anytime, anywhere, even in your lover’s tongue, always Coca-Cola).
“Are you real? Are you really here or am I just about to wake up and find out that this is a dream?” I asked him. “I’m really here,” was what he said. And I decided to believe his words, because life is short.
Too. Damn. Short.
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