Egotist, n. A person of low taste, more interested in himself than in me. ~ Ambrose Bierce (1842 - 1914)
Waking up at 6, knowing I have no place to go.
Realizing that I can choose between staring at my navel til noon, or read a book, or write a book, or clean the bathroom, or go back to sleep.
Realizing that I have no object nor a place I can affectionately call "work".
Realizing that yes, some people prefer working at home - and I am not one of them.
Realizing that I am a student again at this ripe old age.
Realizing that my mother sees me as a chaffeur "because you're not going to the campus today, are you." and thus asks me to take her to the tennis court, and back home, and to the mall, and to the dentist, and to the supermarket, and you get the idea.
Realizing that meanwhile, meanwhile: I have a dissertation to write.
Realizing with an acute pain that I long for a rigid structure in life, I need a harsh deadline, and yet I am bad at disciplining myself.
Realizing how terrible I feel everytime people say "You're home? Taking a leave? Or is it holiday already?" and how unnecessarily defensive I will get, by explaining that I am on this holy duty of studying and therefore you lowly lives should not bother me with your petty questions and you lowly lives should refrain now from saying "Oh my God back to school at your age??" because like I say, this is a holy duty.
Realizing that all these equals pain because I am exactly what you're thinking I am.
What kind of person will get hurt when others think she's unemployed?
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
THE INVASION OF THE CHICKEN-FEET EATERS
“Sometimes to enjoy an end-product means deliberately avoiding seeing the process of making it. If you want to truly enjoy a sausage, try not to witness the process of making one.” A (1972 - )
They were here, in my house, all 9 of them, R and his parents and three of his four siblings plus their spouses. Despite drowning slowly in the buzzes inside my own head, I could hear his mother said something about “future arrangements” which “is really up to the children” but “the sooner is the better, don’t we all think?”
I heard my dad said “Of course” and his eldest sister went up to me asking whether I had talked with R about the “exact time”. Like a very nice and obedient Oshin I told her “No, Teh”, trying to slip my cellphone into my jeans pocket, in it an explicit message which mentioned a very specific body part was displayed.
The next evening when he called me saying that he and his family actually gathered after that visit and “discussed things,” I couldn’t help but say that all these sausage-making process was kinda scary.
“Sausage,” he took a breath. “You said sausage?”
“Yes, the making of a sausage. You stuff minced meat, blood-dripping minced meat, only it’s not all meat, there could be anything in there, all dripping with blood, into an elastic wrapping – “
“Morbid kid,” he laughed.
“ – and after seeing the process of making it, eating it will be an effort, I guess – “
“I told them you said that I was the one to decide the time,” he said, “And I told them and they all agreed with me that – that it would be in June.”
It was by far the longest telephone conversation we ever had – he didn’t even stay silent for two whole minutes at a time like his usual self. He talked so much about so many things, during which I was the one who stayed silent – a picture of myself stuffing ounce after ounce of blood-dripping meat into an elastic wrapping materializing inside my head.
They were here, in my house, all 9 of them, R and his parents and three of his four siblings plus their spouses. Despite drowning slowly in the buzzes inside my own head, I could hear his mother said something about “future arrangements” which “is really up to the children” but “the sooner is the better, don’t we all think?”
I heard my dad said “Of course” and his eldest sister went up to me asking whether I had talked with R about the “exact time”. Like a very nice and obedient Oshin I told her “No, Teh”, trying to slip my cellphone into my jeans pocket, in it an explicit message which mentioned a very specific body part was displayed.
The next evening when he called me saying that he and his family actually gathered after that visit and “discussed things,” I couldn’t help but say that all these sausage-making process was kinda scary.
“Sausage,” he took a breath. “You said sausage?”
“Yes, the making of a sausage. You stuff minced meat, blood-dripping minced meat, only it’s not all meat, there could be anything in there, all dripping with blood, into an elastic wrapping – “
“Morbid kid,” he laughed.
“ – and after seeing the process of making it, eating it will be an effort, I guess – “
“I told them you said that I was the one to decide the time,” he said, “And I told them and they all agreed with me that – that it would be in June.”
It was by far the longest telephone conversation we ever had – he didn’t even stay silent for two whole minutes at a time like his usual self. He talked so much about so many things, during which I was the one who stayed silent – a picture of myself stuffing ounce after ounce of blood-dripping meat into an elastic wrapping materializing inside my head.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
PUZZLES
It’s past the mid-semester, and more and more often everyday, I ask myself which precise malfunctioning part of my brain is responsible for letting people from the office sending me back to school. My typical day is now waking up at 6, hours later than the time I woke up during working-days (Is it really only 3 months ago that I actually had a place to call an office?) Then coffee – shower – and worrying about the rest of the day. I have to show up in campus only on Wednesdays and Fridays, so in the rest of the week I sometime choose to work at home.
“Working” nowadays means reading scientific journals till I get blue in the face, or swearing uncontrollably, or blue in the face in addition to swearing uncontrollably. “Working” so far has yielded:
(1) a 27 pages unfinished research proposal,
(2) a 42-pages unfinished book on Digital Coding,
(3) a page of “extended abstract” on God-please-tell-me-what-I’m-writing-about, which I submitted to a conference in a purely delusional state of mind,
(4) a 23-pages presentation file which I first presented last Friday.
“Working” this way makes me much more nervous than regular lecturing, because there is so much to do, and too much of it is still unclear. I myself am not sure how to best approach my research topic: reading the foundation has taken me almost a year now, and I still seem to be going nowhere. Trying to come up with a simulation? But how can I, if I don’t have very strong background knowledge on the theory?
But, but. Last Friday after I presented my research topic for the first time in the research methodology class, the professor gave me an applause. He had never applauded after any of my classmates’ presentation before, so I took it with a start. But the next thing coming my way was actually a compliment, not snide remarks, and I was left wondering how on earth did I manage to fool the whole class, the professor included.
One classmate who is a seasoned lecturer mentioned that it was obvious that I had a very clear idea on what to do in my research, another said I seemed to be the one with the most convincing progress in class.
Oh God. Was it the sweater I was wearing? Could it be a lucky sweater? Sheesh.
I guess what they say is true, just bravely march ahead and may the fortune be with you.
Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat.
“Working” nowadays means reading scientific journals till I get blue in the face, or swearing uncontrollably, or blue in the face in addition to swearing uncontrollably. “Working” so far has yielded:
(1) a 27 pages unfinished research proposal,
(2) a 42-pages unfinished book on Digital Coding,
(3) a page of “extended abstract” on God-please-tell-me-what-I’m-writing-about, which I submitted to a conference in a purely delusional state of mind,
(4) a 23-pages presentation file which I first presented last Friday.
“Working” this way makes me much more nervous than regular lecturing, because there is so much to do, and too much of it is still unclear. I myself am not sure how to best approach my research topic: reading the foundation has taken me almost a year now, and I still seem to be going nowhere. Trying to come up with a simulation? But how can I, if I don’t have very strong background knowledge on the theory?
But, but. Last Friday after I presented my research topic for the first time in the research methodology class, the professor gave me an applause. He had never applauded after any of my classmates’ presentation before, so I took it with a start. But the next thing coming my way was actually a compliment, not snide remarks, and I was left wondering how on earth did I manage to fool the whole class, the professor included.
One classmate who is a seasoned lecturer mentioned that it was obvious that I had a very clear idea on what to do in my research, another said I seemed to be the one with the most convincing progress in class.
Oh God. Was it the sweater I was wearing? Could it be a lucky sweater? Sheesh.
I guess what they say is true, just bravely march ahead and may the fortune be with you.
Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
OBSCURE
“I might be in the shower when you get here. Feel free to let yourself in – to the livingroom, of course, not the bathroom.” R (1973 - )
“L?” he called from upstairs, then all was quiet for a moment following my “yes”, and then he came rushing down, arms open. I stood up to reciprocate the hug, not sure what was it about.
“Forgive me,” he said. I was inhaling the scent of his soap, imbibing the cool touch of his skin, uncertain as to why I felt so stupid. Until he mentioned a recent event when I hit the roof over one stupid thing – he said again that he was sorry for whatever it was that he did to upset me and I said it was okay – but suddenly I was hoarse and I didn’t want him to notice that I cried that easily, oh no I wouldn’t let him. So I uttered things like he should check his weight again, and pointed to the bathroom scale nearby, and babbling something like he might have gained back a kilo or two out of the 10 kilos he’d lost during the fasting month.
Just so you know. When I babble things like how much do you weigh, I might be trying to conceal my tears. Oh and just so you know - I love you beyond words, so much it brings tears to my eyes.
“L?” he called from upstairs, then all was quiet for a moment following my “yes”, and then he came rushing down, arms open. I stood up to reciprocate the hug, not sure what was it about.
“Forgive me,” he said. I was inhaling the scent of his soap, imbibing the cool touch of his skin, uncertain as to why I felt so stupid. Until he mentioned a recent event when I hit the roof over one stupid thing – he said again that he was sorry for whatever it was that he did to upset me and I said it was okay – but suddenly I was hoarse and I didn’t want him to notice that I cried that easily, oh no I wouldn’t let him. So I uttered things like he should check his weight again, and pointed to the bathroom scale nearby, and babbling something like he might have gained back a kilo or two out of the 10 kilos he’d lost during the fasting month.
Just so you know. When I babble things like how much do you weigh, I might be trying to conceal my tears. Oh and just so you know - I love you beyond words, so much it brings tears to my eyes.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
...AND..YOU ARE...THE YOUNGEST OF FOUR?
We are the people our parents warned us about. ~ Jimmy Buffett
The taxi stopped in front of his house, and there was his father standing at the gate. I never realized how much exactly of a coward I was, until I saw myself deliberately stepped outside the taxi and stood unmoved, waiting for R to walk round the other side of the taxi towards me, so that I didn't have to approach the gate alone.
"This is L," he said to his dad, the way he introduced me to his colleagues, using a somewhat formal tone. I knew that the two of them didn't really talk, and there was even a time when R refused to speak to his father for close to a year, if I remember correctly. But his father made to hold him, which surprised me, and then stopped halfway and shook the son's hand formally, which surprised me even more.
"L," the older man murmured, smiling. "This is R's house. Come inside." He looked so fragile I couldn't believe what I'd heard about him. And he was so quiet. He reminded me of someone.... of a man I could sit across for hours in silence, and both of us wouldn't mind it -- and it dawned slowly on my foggy brains that the man I was thinking of was his very own son.
His mother took both my hands and seemed to talk non-stop for five hours. She told me she was expecting everybody to come: by 'everybody' she meant all of her children and their spouses and their children, except for one son who lived in Malang. She was preparing somebody's birthday dinner, I knew, one of her granddaughter's. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal, I thought, but there she was talking with everybody on the phone, making sure everybody was coming. I overheard her mentioning me over the phone, telling her eldest daughter who was in Puncak that she simply had to come, because I was there. ("But everybody will be there," I remembered him saying, "Are you nervous?").
So there I was, for more than five hours, amidst children and roasted beef and tiramisu, barefooted and silent most of the time, kept being asked where I worked ("But aren't you a student?") and whether I was the youngest of four siblings and whether my siblings were all married; watching R's siblings and in-laws ate and talked loudly -- three generations pretending to be merry and trying to cover up a family breaking apart.
Do we really turn into our parents? ("I notice that my dad and I have some similarities, it scared me to think I might turn into him", R once said). I really hope we don't. (I spent the night eyeing his father, dreading him, dreading what that man was and had actually been capable of doing.)
For a thousand times I repeated to myself that he wouldn't turn into his father.
At the end of the night he, like a man of his father's quality, drove me home in almost complete silence. As we reached my house though, he managed to say something a man of his father's quality wouldn't be able to say.
I stepped out of the car, dizzy with the memory of his buzzing family. Wanting to assure him that I was not a person of his father's quality either, I told him that I loved him, too.
The taxi stopped in front of his house, and there was his father standing at the gate. I never realized how much exactly of a coward I was, until I saw myself deliberately stepped outside the taxi and stood unmoved, waiting for R to walk round the other side of the taxi towards me, so that I didn't have to approach the gate alone.
"This is L," he said to his dad, the way he introduced me to his colleagues, using a somewhat formal tone. I knew that the two of them didn't really talk, and there was even a time when R refused to speak to his father for close to a year, if I remember correctly. But his father made to hold him, which surprised me, and then stopped halfway and shook the son's hand formally, which surprised me even more.
"L," the older man murmured, smiling. "This is R's house. Come inside." He looked so fragile I couldn't believe what I'd heard about him. And he was so quiet. He reminded me of someone.... of a man I could sit across for hours in silence, and both of us wouldn't mind it -- and it dawned slowly on my foggy brains that the man I was thinking of was his very own son.
His mother took both my hands and seemed to talk non-stop for five hours. She told me she was expecting everybody to come: by 'everybody' she meant all of her children and their spouses and their children, except for one son who lived in Malang. She was preparing somebody's birthday dinner, I knew, one of her granddaughter's. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal, I thought, but there she was talking with everybody on the phone, making sure everybody was coming. I overheard her mentioning me over the phone, telling her eldest daughter who was in Puncak that she simply had to come, because I was there. ("But everybody will be there," I remembered him saying, "Are you nervous?").
So there I was, for more than five hours, amidst children and roasted beef and tiramisu, barefooted and silent most of the time, kept being asked where I worked ("But aren't you a student?") and whether I was the youngest of four siblings and whether my siblings were all married; watching R's siblings and in-laws ate and talked loudly -- three generations pretending to be merry and trying to cover up a family breaking apart.
Do we really turn into our parents? ("I notice that my dad and I have some similarities, it scared me to think I might turn into him", R once said). I really hope we don't. (I spent the night eyeing his father, dreading him, dreading what that man was and had actually been capable of doing.)
For a thousand times I repeated to myself that he wouldn't turn into his father.
At the end of the night he, like a man of his father's quality, drove me home in almost complete silence. As we reached my house though, he managed to say something a man of his father's quality wouldn't be able to say.
I stepped out of the car, dizzy with the memory of his buzzing family. Wanting to assure him that I was not a person of his father's quality either, I told him that I loved him, too.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
MADHATTER
Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead. ~ Charles Bukowski (1920 - 1994)
A year passed since the first time he said he wanted to meet my parents. I dreaded his meeting my siblings, I had looked at him hard when he casually said he wanted to drop by my house and meet my sisters and nephew and niece, but I had let him. I let him come to my house, once, twice, three times, then almost routinely twice or three times a week --- on all occassions my parents were not home. They were not even in Jakarta.
When my parents moved back to Jakarta, his visits stopped. We went out for dinners or movies or lunches, one time we watched dvd's at my house - when my parents weren't home. We didn't say anything about it: it was simply understood. I once saw a madman sat in an abandoned bus stop, and I admired how he could sit silently, comfortably, for what seemed like days, without saying a word, just staring into blankness. Now everytime I look at us I am reminded of him, our silence is not unlike that madman's, there are so much we don't say. So many things we hope to be just understood.
To make life even more complicated, there was a time when he needed to go to his parents' house and I gave him a lift. Parked in front of his gate, my body simply refused to move, we were silent for a few minutes, until he finally said that it was okay if I didn't want to come inside and meet his parents.
As for why I kept him so long from meeting my parents, it would be another long posting, but trust me that I have a very good reason for that and I couldn't afford to do otherwise. Much as I long to be, I am not crazy, never crazy enough to bear witnessing how my parents will joyfully rip him into the smallest of pieces.
Last May, he told me that it was mandatory for him to have met them by June, but considering our position (quite literally) I thought he was delirious. Considering that his next sentence was that by July he wanted to ask my parents to let him marry me, I was even more convinced about this deliriousness.
Last Saturday I met him at a mall to see a movie, and whereas usually I walked home and he caught a bus home afterwards, that day he followed me home. Oh three minutes into the walk I screeched whether he wanted to go to his place or to his parents' house, and he said he wanted to come to my house, and whether I wanted to walk or take the bus. Lunacy, I thought, pure lunacy.
You would be correct to guess that we walked side by side mostly in silence. During that 40 minutes walk I kept asking him without words, whether he was sure about what he was doing. I asked myself whether I was sure about what I was doing. For both I got no answer.
I was just more and more convinced that he was crazy. He was that madman in the abandoned bus stop.
Hours later when he was back to his own place, he told me thru text: I am relieved to finally meet them. I didn't reply for another six hours, partly because I knew he'd have understood my silence better than my words, and partly because - I had felt myself plunged headlong into a deep well of craziness.
There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 - 1900)
A year passed since the first time he said he wanted to meet my parents. I dreaded his meeting my siblings, I had looked at him hard when he casually said he wanted to drop by my house and meet my sisters and nephew and niece, but I had let him. I let him come to my house, once, twice, three times, then almost routinely twice or three times a week --- on all occassions my parents were not home. They were not even in Jakarta.
When my parents moved back to Jakarta, his visits stopped. We went out for dinners or movies or lunches, one time we watched dvd's at my house - when my parents weren't home. We didn't say anything about it: it was simply understood. I once saw a madman sat in an abandoned bus stop, and I admired how he could sit silently, comfortably, for what seemed like days, without saying a word, just staring into blankness. Now everytime I look at us I am reminded of him, our silence is not unlike that madman's, there are so much we don't say. So many things we hope to be just understood.
To make life even more complicated, there was a time when he needed to go to his parents' house and I gave him a lift. Parked in front of his gate, my body simply refused to move, we were silent for a few minutes, until he finally said that it was okay if I didn't want to come inside and meet his parents.
As for why I kept him so long from meeting my parents, it would be another long posting, but trust me that I have a very good reason for that and I couldn't afford to do otherwise. Much as I long to be, I am not crazy, never crazy enough to bear witnessing how my parents will joyfully rip him into the smallest of pieces.
Last May, he told me that it was mandatory for him to have met them by June, but considering our position (quite literally) I thought he was delirious. Considering that his next sentence was that by July he wanted to ask my parents to let him marry me, I was even more convinced about this deliriousness.
Last Saturday I met him at a mall to see a movie, and whereas usually I walked home and he caught a bus home afterwards, that day he followed me home. Oh three minutes into the walk I screeched whether he wanted to go to his place or to his parents' house, and he said he wanted to come to my house, and whether I wanted to walk or take the bus. Lunacy, I thought, pure lunacy.
You would be correct to guess that we walked side by side mostly in silence. During that 40 minutes walk I kept asking him without words, whether he was sure about what he was doing. I asked myself whether I was sure about what I was doing. For both I got no answer.
I was just more and more convinced that he was crazy. He was that madman in the abandoned bus stop.
Hours later when he was back to his own place, he told me thru text: I am relieved to finally meet them. I didn't reply for another six hours, partly because I knew he'd have understood my silence better than my words, and partly because - I had felt myself plunged headlong into a deep well of craziness.
There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 - 1900)
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
UNCONFIDENT PART 2 I'LL GET OUT OF THIS. ALIVE.
[Tendinitis: Inflammation of a tendon, usually the result of microtrauma from overuse.]
On 07-07-07 I took that dreadful entrance tests, which lasted from 9 AM to 3 PM, with only an hour break in between. The tests consisted of two parts, aptitude test and English test, and the aptitude test is further divided into several parts....oh well. I don't think I want to elaborate on that.
They weren't easy, those tests. I had clearly made a mistake of thinking I would have aced the verbal test, assuming that I was a "verbal person" instead of a "numerical person" all these years. Turned out that I gaped at the verbal test questions 80% of the time, unable to answer. Strange. The numerical test was much more manageable, but the realisation that I didn't do well in the verbal part shook my confidence that I would get past the minimum threshold grade.
But I quickly forgot about those tests, because in about 24 hours after, I had this menacing lower-back pain. People have always told me I look "terrible" when I am writing, because I tend to bend down all the way to the tabletop, my face 2 inches away from the paper. So I knew that my backpain was caused by that 4,5 hours of sitting in an awkward angle during the tests, and I am actually no stranger to lower-back pains. Funnily though, this time the pain was so bad that I couldn't stand up at all. I tried three times to get out of bed, and all three times I was paralysed and broke out in cold sweat while enduring a pain so sharp it felt like I was having a lightning bolt shooting through my brain.
I spent 24 hours practically unmoved in bed, not eating and drinking, tried to go to the toilet once, and was paralysed midway between the bathroom door and my bed. The pain was so severe that looking at my bed, and that bathroom door, both only half a metre away from where I stood, I was devastated. Until then I had never realised how fortunate I was to be able to stand up, walk, and drive without pain.
That was on Sunday and I knew I wouldn't be able to work the following Monday. Standing up was unbearably painful, how could I even sit and drive to work? (Yes, sitting pained me even more than standing up.) On Monday I couldn't stand more than 10 minutes, clearly unable to sit at all, and it took me so long to put on my clothes, so the plan to see the doctor that day went down the drain. I went to the doctor on Tuesday instead, and when I had to have an x-ray of my vertebrae taken, it took me two people to help me lie down. The pain was bad, bad, bad. It wasn't the kind you would have after you trained too hard in the gym, I'm telling you.
Anyway, I drove to the office today. The pain has lessened a great deal, though not completely gone. Some of my colleagues actually had the nerves to tell me that many people they knew with severe backpains ended up paralysed for life. Evilfuckers. Now that I know I do not have bone or nerves problems and it was merely a tendinitis, I can swear at them. But last week, when I couldn't move unless I was being heavily drugged, hearing about the prospect of spending my life in bed was devastating. Hope those evils develop incompetence in the very near future.
Through the internet I found out that tendon healed slowly, which explains why the doc prescribes me three weeks' worth of painkillers and muscle-relaxers. The funny thing is, one of the painkillers I'm being prescribed is one usually used to ease post-partum pain. [For the fucking love of God, if this is what after-labour pain feels like, I guess I'm not interested to find out what in-labour pain feels like.]
And now for that tests. The result will be out in a week or two. For the record let it be known that I'm keeping my fingers crossed, and yes - my back all nice and straight.
On 07-07-07 I took that dreadful entrance tests, which lasted from 9 AM to 3 PM, with only an hour break in between. The tests consisted of two parts, aptitude test and English test, and the aptitude test is further divided into several parts....oh well. I don't think I want to elaborate on that.
They weren't easy, those tests. I had clearly made a mistake of thinking I would have aced the verbal test, assuming that I was a "verbal person" instead of a "numerical person" all these years. Turned out that I gaped at the verbal test questions 80% of the time, unable to answer. Strange. The numerical test was much more manageable, but the realisation that I didn't do well in the verbal part shook my confidence that I would get past the minimum threshold grade.
But I quickly forgot about those tests, because in about 24 hours after, I had this menacing lower-back pain. People have always told me I look "terrible" when I am writing, because I tend to bend down all the way to the tabletop, my face 2 inches away from the paper. So I knew that my backpain was caused by that 4,5 hours of sitting in an awkward angle during the tests, and I am actually no stranger to lower-back pains. Funnily though, this time the pain was so bad that I couldn't stand up at all. I tried three times to get out of bed, and all three times I was paralysed and broke out in cold sweat while enduring a pain so sharp it felt like I was having a lightning bolt shooting through my brain.
I spent 24 hours practically unmoved in bed, not eating and drinking, tried to go to the toilet once, and was paralysed midway between the bathroom door and my bed. The pain was so severe that looking at my bed, and that bathroom door, both only half a metre away from where I stood, I was devastated. Until then I had never realised how fortunate I was to be able to stand up, walk, and drive without pain.
That was on Sunday and I knew I wouldn't be able to work the following Monday. Standing up was unbearably painful, how could I even sit and drive to work? (Yes, sitting pained me even more than standing up.) On Monday I couldn't stand more than 10 minutes, clearly unable to sit at all, and it took me so long to put on my clothes, so the plan to see the doctor that day went down the drain. I went to the doctor on Tuesday instead, and when I had to have an x-ray of my vertebrae taken, it took me two people to help me lie down. The pain was bad, bad, bad. It wasn't the kind you would have after you trained too hard in the gym, I'm telling you.
Anyway, I drove to the office today. The pain has lessened a great deal, though not completely gone. Some of my colleagues actually had the nerves to tell me that many people they knew with severe backpains ended up paralysed for life. Evilfuckers. Now that I know I do not have bone or nerves problems and it was merely a tendinitis, I can swear at them. But last week, when I couldn't move unless I was being heavily drugged, hearing about the prospect of spending my life in bed was devastating. Hope those evils develop incompetence in the very near future.
Through the internet I found out that tendon healed slowly, which explains why the doc prescribes me three weeks' worth of painkillers and muscle-relaxers. The funny thing is, one of the painkillers I'm being prescribed is one usually used to ease post-partum pain. [For the fucking love of God, if this is what after-labour pain feels like, I guess I'm not interested to find out what in-labour pain feels like.]
And now for that tests. The result will be out in a week or two. For the record let it be known that I'm keeping my fingers crossed, and yes - my back all nice and straight.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
UNCONFIDENT PART 1
Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence. ~ Robert Frost (1874 - 1963)
It's a wonder that I came across that quote above, one that put 'education' and 'confidence' in the same sentence. To me, the more studying I do, the more unconfident I get. Confidence has become an issue for me nowadays. Or rather, the lack of it, actually.
Was it really less than 10 years ago that I approached everything so confidently? Darn. To think that some years ago there was a younger version of myself who roamed about telling herself that she could do postgraduate level of engineering studies and be a writer and be a lecturer and even publish her own book. To think that only a few years back I would grab every single opportunity to do "something different" and now I run away, panting with my every step, everytime somebody asks me to do something I don't normally do. It sickens me to realize what a chicken I have become. I have finally, like so many others, entered my comfort zone and leaving it seems like too great a task for me.
Sigh.
The campus assigns me this year, this very year, to do my doctorate study.
Gulp.
It's a wonder that I came across that quote above, one that put 'education' and 'confidence' in the same sentence. To me, the more studying I do, the more unconfident I get. Confidence has become an issue for me nowadays. Or rather, the lack of it, actually.
Was it really less than 10 years ago that I approached everything so confidently? Darn. To think that some years ago there was a younger version of myself who roamed about telling herself that she could do postgraduate level of engineering studies and be a writer and be a lecturer and even publish her own book. To think that only a few years back I would grab every single opportunity to do "something different" and now I run away, panting with my every step, everytime somebody asks me to do something I don't normally do. It sickens me to realize what a chicken I have become. I have finally, like so many others, entered my comfort zone and leaving it seems like too great a task for me.
Sigh.
The campus assigns me this year, this very year, to do my doctorate study.
Gulp.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
WHO'S GONNA DRIVE YOU HOME TONIGHT.
Silence is one of the hardest arguments to refute.
~ Josh Billings (1818 - 1885)
The little voice inside me saying words my tongue doesn't know how to pronunciate - the sensation I could relate to the phrase "boiling blood" - the way my common sense went to sleep and my brains left me alone. All of those, plus my finding it hard to speak: I recognised that it was anger that was inside me.
I found it hard to believe that I had such bitter wrath towards him, and for such a trivial reason at that. Why, that day I spent about 10 hours sitting unmoved in endless final oral comprehension tests. At 7 PM the day was finally over, and I met him at a fast-food joint where he was having dinner while waiting for me. I couldn't think straight. I wanted to be home right away, I wanted a hot shower and I missed my bed so sorely. Yet there were more than 20 kilometres of hellish traffic jam between that place and my bed: and guess who had to drive.
Actually, whenever we went together, I would be driving 90% of the time. I guess the luxury of that sitting in the passenger seat 10% of the time enticed my exhausted brains and body too much, that when he casually went in the car and sat in the passenger seat without asking whether I would like him to drive, I felt very angry. How could he do that? So guiltlessly assumed that I would do the driving?
But, but: why must I be angry? Didn't I always drive anyway? Was he to blame if he just assumed that I wanted to drive? Why didn't I simply ask him to drive, instead of silently getting angry that way?
There could be a thousand answers to that, and there could be none -- all I knew was that I was so angry with him for not offering to drive when he knew I was dead tired, and with myself for being such a spoilt-brat-who-was-too-much-of-a-coward-to-actually-speak-out-her-mind. All I knew was I found it impossible to speak during the 2-hour drive and I even thought to myself genius things like well he never talks much anyway so why don't we just drive in silence and give him a taste of his own medicine!!! I bet he is wondering why I do not care to speak to him at all!!!
It was somewhere in the middle of crowded Senayan when I couldn't feel my tired numbed legs anymore and my heart was so heavy and suddenly he said softly: "Would you like me to drive?"
I couldn't bear to look at him, and I couldn't answer for fear of letting out tears of defeat. I was reminded somehow of a magnifying glass, one through which he could see the weak front I put up to disguise my anger. One through which I could see my stupid, stubborn self so clearly. I couldn't bear to look at him, for fear of looking straight into that glass.
So I shook my head, and looked out of the window, trying to swallow my defeat along with my bitter tears -- humbled and knowing full well now, that while he always let me win our spoken arguments, there was no way I could win our silent ones.
P.S. :
And since you know
you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover
to yourself,
that of yourself
which
you yet know not of.
~ William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
~ Josh Billings (1818 - 1885)
The little voice inside me saying words my tongue doesn't know how to pronunciate - the sensation I could relate to the phrase "boiling blood" - the way my common sense went to sleep and my brains left me alone. All of those, plus my finding it hard to speak: I recognised that it was anger that was inside me.
I found it hard to believe that I had such bitter wrath towards him, and for such a trivial reason at that. Why, that day I spent about 10 hours sitting unmoved in endless final oral comprehension tests. At 7 PM the day was finally over, and I met him at a fast-food joint where he was having dinner while waiting for me. I couldn't think straight. I wanted to be home right away, I wanted a hot shower and I missed my bed so sorely. Yet there were more than 20 kilometres of hellish traffic jam between that place and my bed: and guess who had to drive.
Actually, whenever we went together, I would be driving 90% of the time. I guess the luxury of that sitting in the passenger seat 10% of the time enticed my exhausted brains and body too much, that when he casually went in the car and sat in the passenger seat without asking whether I would like him to drive, I felt very angry. How could he do that? So guiltlessly assumed that I would do the driving?
But, but: why must I be angry? Didn't I always drive anyway? Was he to blame if he just assumed that I wanted to drive? Why didn't I simply ask him to drive, instead of silently getting angry that way?
There could be a thousand answers to that, and there could be none -- all I knew was that I was so angry with him for not offering to drive when he knew I was dead tired, and with myself for being such a spoilt-brat-who-was-too-much-of-a-coward-to-actually-speak-out-her-mind. All I knew was I found it impossible to speak during the 2-hour drive and I even thought to myself genius things like well he never talks much anyway so why don't we just drive in silence and give him a taste of his own medicine!!! I bet he is wondering why I do not care to speak to him at all!!!
It was somewhere in the middle of crowded Senayan when I couldn't feel my tired numbed legs anymore and my heart was so heavy and suddenly he said softly: "Would you like me to drive?"
I couldn't bear to look at him, and I couldn't answer for fear of letting out tears of defeat. I was reminded somehow of a magnifying glass, one through which he could see the weak front I put up to disguise my anger. One through which I could see my stupid, stubborn self so clearly. I couldn't bear to look at him, for fear of looking straight into that glass.
So I shook my head, and looked out of the window, trying to swallow my defeat along with my bitter tears -- humbled and knowing full well now, that while he always let me win our spoken arguments, there was no way I could win our silent ones.
P.S. :
And since you know
you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover
to yourself,
that of yourself
which
you yet know not of.
~ William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
MAYDAY. MAYDAY.
I just had to, had to, had to, had to have a glass of cold milk-coffee. But we ran out of milk.
Being wonderfully persistent I refused to give up (I strongly believe that problems in the office entitle one to give up, really complex maths formula entitles one to give up, but I for one will never, ever give up on a quest to get a decent cup of coffee, be it cold or hot, black or white) and so I assembled this concoction. A concoction that resembled iced milk-coffee and tasted nice too, and being plain generous I'd share with you the recipe:
- A packet of Indocafe cappucino (when you don't have any milk at home, you'll have to make do with the fake cream found in Indocafe cappucino. I know it doesn't even taste like milk. Thank you.)
- Extra spoonfuls of Nescafe instant coffee (because the cappucino mixture isn't black enough to my liking)
- Extra sugar (you're gonna put some ice in this drink later so you really, really need extra sugar)
I mixed these up and put in some ice cubes and -- as I mentioned earlier, the resulting drink looked and tasted nice. I sipped happily, and sipped, and sipped, and finally it struck me: it was BAD. It tasted like medicine.
And the scary thing was I didn't even realize that, I couldn't even think straight, until a certain amount of coffee got in my brain cells.
I thought I was merely desperate.
But now I figure I must be a desperate addict.
Being wonderfully persistent I refused to give up (I strongly believe that problems in the office entitle one to give up, really complex maths formula entitles one to give up, but I for one will never, ever give up on a quest to get a decent cup of coffee, be it cold or hot, black or white) and so I assembled this concoction. A concoction that resembled iced milk-coffee and tasted nice too, and being plain generous I'd share with you the recipe:
- A packet of Indocafe cappucino (when you don't have any milk at home, you'll have to make do with the fake cream found in Indocafe cappucino. I know it doesn't even taste like milk. Thank you.)
- Extra spoonfuls of Nescafe instant coffee (because the cappucino mixture isn't black enough to my liking)
- Extra sugar (you're gonna put some ice in this drink later so you really, really need extra sugar)
I mixed these up and put in some ice cubes and -- as I mentioned earlier, the resulting drink looked and tasted nice. I sipped happily, and sipped, and sipped, and finally it struck me: it was BAD. It tasted like medicine.
And the scary thing was I didn't even realize that, I couldn't even think straight, until a certain amount of coffee got in my brain cells.
I thought I was merely desperate.
But now I figure I must be a desperate addict.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A WOMAN
Dear Miss Complainer:
In reply to your latest complaint regarding my tendency to depict
woman-to-woman relationship tinged with romantic nuance in some of my fictions, I would like to share the following with you:
First, with all due honour, I hereby request that you take off your religion-tinted glasses when you read my fictions, and whenever you try to discuss my fictions with me. Once you raise the issue of religion, then there’s no point going further with the discussion, because as we both fully understand, religion dogma is not debatable. And because we understand that mentioning religion teachings while poking about the faults of my fiction is simply bizarre. Of course my fictions don’t go along with any religious teachings you can think of. My fiction is the work of a sinful, lowly human, done without any intention to drive any dogma into my readers’ brain, because I know my readers are intelligent enough not to get fooled into acting out my fictions. I know my readers are mature enough to distinguish facts from fictions. Some of my readers are mature enough to accept the fact that a person might fall in love with another in many ways, in ways unlimited to race and age and social background, yes, and regardless to the other person’s sex.
Secondly, I am fully aware of your intelligence too. I am fully aware of your ability to distinguish facts from fictions. Acutely, I know that you know that we both know the reason you become so bitter about all this, the reason why suddenly you attacked me brutally, angrily accusing me of being a filthy, immoral writer.
Dear Miss Complainer,
I am mature enough to accept the fact that person might fall in love with another in many ways. I am mature enough to accept the fact that you have fallen helplessly in love with me.
Sometimes you want me to be a man, so that you can love me freely, legally, in accordance to all religious teachings you can think of. But you don’t want me to be a man, because you fall in love with this person you don’t want to change, because you love me for me --- for the woman that I am. I know that it is very painful for
you to acknowledge this feeling has grown inside you and that it has grown so big inside your chest.
Lastly, I know that you would rather die than ever admitting that you love me.
And I know that you have died more than a thousand times when I am not around, when you admit to yourself how much you love me.
Sincerely yours,
L.S.
In reply to your latest complaint regarding my tendency to depict
woman-to-woman relationship tinged with romantic nuance in some of my fictions, I would like to share the following with you:
First, with all due honour, I hereby request that you take off your religion-tinted glasses when you read my fictions, and whenever you try to discuss my fictions with me. Once you raise the issue of religion, then there’s no point going further with the discussion, because as we both fully understand, religion dogma is not debatable. And because we understand that mentioning religion teachings while poking about the faults of my fiction is simply bizarre. Of course my fictions don’t go along with any religious teachings you can think of. My fiction is the work of a sinful, lowly human, done without any intention to drive any dogma into my readers’ brain, because I know my readers are intelligent enough not to get fooled into acting out my fictions. I know my readers are mature enough to distinguish facts from fictions. Some of my readers are mature enough to accept the fact that a person might fall in love with another in many ways, in ways unlimited to race and age and social background, yes, and regardless to the other person’s sex.
Secondly, I am fully aware of your intelligence too. I am fully aware of your ability to distinguish facts from fictions. Acutely, I know that you know that we both know the reason you become so bitter about all this, the reason why suddenly you attacked me brutally, angrily accusing me of being a filthy, immoral writer.
Dear Miss Complainer,
I am mature enough to accept the fact that person might fall in love with another in many ways. I am mature enough to accept the fact that you have fallen helplessly in love with me.
Sometimes you want me to be a man, so that you can love me freely, legally, in accordance to all religious teachings you can think of. But you don’t want me to be a man, because you fall in love with this person you don’t want to change, because you love me for me --- for the woman that I am. I know that it is very painful for
you to acknowledge this feeling has grown inside you and that it has grown so big inside your chest.
Lastly, I know that you would rather die than ever admitting that you love me.
And I know that you have died more than a thousand times when I am not around, when you admit to yourself how much you love me.
Sincerely yours,
L.S.
Monday, January 22, 2007
AND I, YOU, QUADFOLD.
That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness
and of love.
--William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
A bough fell on my car on January 2nd, leaving a 5 cm dent and some ugly scratches. I made an insurance claim, and went to the insurance-company-affiliated-repairshop, which was quite far from my house, the following Saturday. They told me to get the car back the following Friday.
At first I thought that since I didn't have the ungodly 7 AM class on Fridays, I could just take a bus to work (not just 'a' bus, actually, but 3 different ones plus some walking, making a total of 2 hours travel), then later on take a taxi from work to the repairshop. But on Thursday it dawned on me that I didn't only have to substitute a colleague for 1 morning-class, but 2 classes, in addition to my own noon class. If you knew anything about me, you'd correctly guess that such a sudden, unplanned thing wrecks me senseless, making me utterly nervous.
Yes, I really am a quivering bundle of nerves.
So the next morning I woke up at 4.25 AM, and was ready to leave the house at 5.30 AM, when my sister asked why didn't I just take the car to work. And had him come to my workplace that afternoon and then went to the repairshop with him and asked him to please drive the other car home.
It is 5.30 AM, I reminded my sister. 5.30 AM to him is the same as 22.30 PM for me. He'd be fast asleep. "Call him," she said, and the temptation of not having to take 3 different buses to work was just too hard for me to ignore. So I called him. And he said yes. He said yes. It still puzzles me sometimes as to what makes me deserve so many favours from him.
So that Friday afternoon he took a bus and arrived all sweaty at my workplace, and I drove us to the repairshop. He noted that the repaired car almost had no gas left, and the nearest gas station was about 500 metres of bad-traffic-jam away. "That is why I am taking this car," I said, handing him the key of the other car. "You take the other car. See you in the gas station?"
"No, that is why I am taking this car. So if the gas ran out in the middle of the traffic, I'd be the one who handle it," he said. I am so used, so used of handling problematic car alone (albeit fearfully) that the thought of him helping me to handle this one was overwhelming. I guess it says something not just about myself being alone for too long, but also about my being arrogant all this time, in terms of not letting people lending me a hand whenever I need it.
In short, we made it to the gas station, he was all sweaty because there was no way he could afford turning the air-conditioner on, with only 2-3 litres of gas left.
Then we drove home, he driving ahead of me. I felt kinda funny, having to drive behind him, wanting him in the car next to me. But this was the price I had to pay for not taking the bus to work in the morning.
At one junction we were both stopped by a red light, I was trying to fight back the glaring afternoon sun, at the same time looking at the back of his head visible from his rear window, when my cellphone beeped.
A message from him just seeped into it: "I love you."
My head was full with the images of him being sweat-drenched because he took that car instead of this one -- because he couldn't turn the air-conditioner on -- because there had been almost no gas left in that car -- because I hadn't filled up the tank before I took the car to the repairshop ... I couldn't quite figure how a person was able to say he loved someone who had put him in such troublesome situation.
And I couldn't quite figure how suddenly tears filled up my eyes. It must be the sun. Must be the glaring afternoon sun.
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness
and of love.
--William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
A bough fell on my car on January 2nd, leaving a 5 cm dent and some ugly scratches. I made an insurance claim, and went to the insurance-company-affiliated-repairshop, which was quite far from my house, the following Saturday. They told me to get the car back the following Friday.
At first I thought that since I didn't have the ungodly 7 AM class on Fridays, I could just take a bus to work (not just 'a' bus, actually, but 3 different ones plus some walking, making a total of 2 hours travel), then later on take a taxi from work to the repairshop. But on Thursday it dawned on me that I didn't only have to substitute a colleague for 1 morning-class, but 2 classes, in addition to my own noon class. If you knew anything about me, you'd correctly guess that such a sudden, unplanned thing wrecks me senseless, making me utterly nervous.
Yes, I really am a quivering bundle of nerves.
So the next morning I woke up at 4.25 AM, and was ready to leave the house at 5.30 AM, when my sister asked why didn't I just take the car to work. And had him come to my workplace that afternoon and then went to the repairshop with him and asked him to please drive the other car home.
It is 5.30 AM, I reminded my sister. 5.30 AM to him is the same as 22.30 PM for me. He'd be fast asleep. "Call him," she said, and the temptation of not having to take 3 different buses to work was just too hard for me to ignore. So I called him. And he said yes. He said yes. It still puzzles me sometimes as to what makes me deserve so many favours from him.
So that Friday afternoon he took a bus and arrived all sweaty at my workplace, and I drove us to the repairshop. He noted that the repaired car almost had no gas left, and the nearest gas station was about 500 metres of bad-traffic-jam away. "That is why I am taking this car," I said, handing him the key of the other car. "You take the other car. See you in the gas station?"
"No, that is why I am taking this car. So if the gas ran out in the middle of the traffic, I'd be the one who handle it," he said. I am so used, so used of handling problematic car alone (albeit fearfully) that the thought of him helping me to handle this one was overwhelming. I guess it says something not just about myself being alone for too long, but also about my being arrogant all this time, in terms of not letting people lending me a hand whenever I need it.
In short, we made it to the gas station, he was all sweaty because there was no way he could afford turning the air-conditioner on, with only 2-3 litres of gas left.
Then we drove home, he driving ahead of me. I felt kinda funny, having to drive behind him, wanting him in the car next to me. But this was the price I had to pay for not taking the bus to work in the morning.
At one junction we were both stopped by a red light, I was trying to fight back the glaring afternoon sun, at the same time looking at the back of his head visible from his rear window, when my cellphone beeped.
A message from him just seeped into it: "I love you."
My head was full with the images of him being sweat-drenched because he took that car instead of this one -- because he couldn't turn the air-conditioner on -- because there had been almost no gas left in that car -- because I hadn't filled up the tank before I took the car to the repairshop ... I couldn't quite figure how a person was able to say he loved someone who had put him in such troublesome situation.
And I couldn't quite figure how suddenly tears filled up my eyes. It must be the sun. Must be the glaring afternoon sun.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
ARGH.
I can't write.
Can't write a decent blog post, that is.
Tried twice so far.
To no avail.
Music and coffee didn't help.
This is bad.
Can't write a decent blog post, that is.
Tried twice so far.
To no avail.
Music and coffee didn't help.
This is bad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)