An optimist stays up to see the New Year in. A pessimist waits to make sure the old one leaves. ~ Bill Vaughan
Why I am so happy this year has finally come to an end:
Early this year I tried to shape up a report for R1 exam. I came to an ugly deadlock as DA 1 wanted to go one way and DA 2 wanted to go another. I went as far as walking back and forth from DA 1’s office to DA 2’s office most of the days, trying to reach a compromise. At the same time I also tried to come up with a research proposal for DGHE (again). And, also, I tried to shape up a report for an international journal. My brain who does not know how to multi-task (save for listening to music while surfing the internet) clearly suffered.
In the first quarter of the year though, I got a rejection letter from the international journal. Needless to say it was one of the biggest annoyances of the year.
In the middle of the year my friend died, my best friend’s dad died, and R’s dad died. That was on top of some painful personal problems. The whole midyear was so bleak.
Nearing the end of the year, again I got a MAJOR problem at school. This time-round I was even reduced to tears, so bad the problem was. It took me weeks to gather my pieces.
Of course, some good things also happened this year. I passed R1 exam. My paper was accepted for publication in an international conference. I got a grant from DGHE. I submitted another report to a national journal (still haven’t got the verdict on this one, but the submission is an accomplishment in itself). I submitted a report for R2 exam (and still waiting for the exam date).
But all in all I am so glad to get rid of this year. Shoo, shoo 2009! I won't miss you! Blechhh!!
Errr. Ahem. Here’s looking forward to a sunny 2010, wishing us all a good ride ahead.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
SUNDAY AFTERNOON RANTS
To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost. ~ Gustave Flaubert (1821 - 1880)
It is actually too early to complain about my stupidity and tiredness. It’s only after 1 PM Sunday afternoon now, and I haven’t worked since yesterday. In my left, my agenda lies open; in it I’ve listed some things needed to be done. Good trick to make me feel guilty at the end of the day.
Actually I am trying to look at the sources of my tiredness and boredom. The root of it all is the lack of a very strict deadline, I guess. I cannot stay motivated working towards a deadline which goes “Do it this way, but when you’ve done it maybe I’ll make you do it another way, oh the deadline is 5 days from now, but maybe tomorrow I’ll make you do another project (my own personal project) but I hope it won’t distract you!”
That’s the kind of deadline my co-promoter is always giving me. I’d work so hard to do A, then he’ll have it changed to B (this usually requires a huge amount of re-programming) and meanwhile he’ll distract me by making me do his work. I’ve been asked to teach his classes, write a book for him (224 pages and counting, took me a year to write), grade the exams in his classes, even do translations for his presentations.
Another source of this is that I’m beginning to feel like what I’m doing is not worth my time at all. I began to think that my work screams utter stupidity, and though I know many students get to this point sooner or later during the long years of research, I cannot help thinking that maybe I am the stupidest human being ever attempted this path.
Yet another is a fear that I’ve done something wrong in my research all along. Plus a mega-dose of insecurity that I will be able to pull through. My consolations nowadays is telling myself that it is okay to be both stupid and alive; I don’t have to drop dead just because somebody can shoot so many holes in my research and thus prove me a sub-human species. And that it is okay to be stupid and be a student at the same time. And that it is okay to make a stupid research because genius researches are always too few.
I even go as far as memorizing that The Theory of Relativity wasn’t the subject of Einstein’s dissertation, nor was Das Kapital the subject of Karl Marx’s. I am not so crazy as to compare myself to those giants; I just desperately need a consolation.
Hey, this is another consolation: Seno Gumira’s dissertation topic was about Panji Tengkorak comic strip. Is it not a consolation? Or would you think that topic still worth more than mine?
Anyways. I’ll try to forgive myself for being so stupid. In the mean time I’ll cross my fingers hoping to pass R2 exam. If I did pass, I’D buy you lunch. Oh yes. You’ll just need to tell me how I can contact you, and I’ll send you lunch money or even food. In case we’ve known each other, I’d take you to lunch myself. That is how desperate I am for this exam.
The exam will be anytime between next week to January 6th, 2010, anyway. Here’s hoping you’ll wish me luck, here’s hoping I’ll buy you lunch sometime very soon.
It is actually too early to complain about my stupidity and tiredness. It’s only after 1 PM Sunday afternoon now, and I haven’t worked since yesterday. In my left, my agenda lies open; in it I’ve listed some things needed to be done. Good trick to make me feel guilty at the end of the day.
Actually I am trying to look at the sources of my tiredness and boredom. The root of it all is the lack of a very strict deadline, I guess. I cannot stay motivated working towards a deadline which goes “Do it this way, but when you’ve done it maybe I’ll make you do it another way, oh the deadline is 5 days from now, but maybe tomorrow I’ll make you do another project (my own personal project) but I hope it won’t distract you!”
That’s the kind of deadline my co-promoter is always giving me. I’d work so hard to do A, then he’ll have it changed to B (this usually requires a huge amount of re-programming) and meanwhile he’ll distract me by making me do his work. I’ve been asked to teach his classes, write a book for him (224 pages and counting, took me a year to write), grade the exams in his classes, even do translations for his presentations.
Another source of this is that I’m beginning to feel like what I’m doing is not worth my time at all. I began to think that my work screams utter stupidity, and though I know many students get to this point sooner or later during the long years of research, I cannot help thinking that maybe I am the stupidest human being ever attempted this path.
Yet another is a fear that I’ve done something wrong in my research all along. Plus a mega-dose of insecurity that I will be able to pull through. My consolations nowadays is telling myself that it is okay to be both stupid and alive; I don’t have to drop dead just because somebody can shoot so many holes in my research and thus prove me a sub-human species. And that it is okay to be stupid and be a student at the same time. And that it is okay to make a stupid research because genius researches are always too few.
I even go as far as memorizing that The Theory of Relativity wasn’t the subject of Einstein’s dissertation, nor was Das Kapital the subject of Karl Marx’s. I am not so crazy as to compare myself to those giants; I just desperately need a consolation.
Hey, this is another consolation: Seno Gumira’s dissertation topic was about Panji Tengkorak comic strip. Is it not a consolation? Or would you think that topic still worth more than mine?
Anyways. I’ll try to forgive myself for being so stupid. In the mean time I’ll cross my fingers hoping to pass R2 exam. If I did pass, I’D buy you lunch. Oh yes. You’ll just need to tell me how I can contact you, and I’ll send you lunch money or even food. In case we’ve known each other, I’d take you to lunch myself. That is how desperate I am for this exam.
The exam will be anytime between next week to January 6th, 2010, anyway. Here’s hoping you’ll wish me luck, here’s hoping I’ll buy you lunch sometime very soon.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
ON WRITING FICTIONS
The only thing I was fit for was to be a writer, and this notion rested solely on my suspicion that I would never be fit for real work, and that writing didn't require any. ~ Russell Baker (1925 - )
I have been misled so many times in life. Oh no you wouldn’t want to know what things I had once believed so dearly, the things I needed years to find out to be horribly wrong.
I have now come to suspect that the deep-rooted belief I’ve had since childhood, that I could actually write fiction, is also a misleading one.
It all started rather innocently. I started reading when I was five, and finished my first Enid Blyton book in the first grade. (Before that, it was the full version of all-text no-graphics Bambi, which was more than 100 pages, and Helen Keller’s biography. Yes, from my choice of books at 5 years old, you could safely assume that I’d grow up to be a very boring woman). I first read Agatha Christie’s books when I was in fifth grade. I have a soft spot for mystery books until now, but since 1992 I’ve grown very fond of the stories told by Amy Tan, Wally Lamb, Barbara Kingsolver (The Poisonwood Bible!), Jeffrey Eugenides (The Middlesex!).…you know, the books which will most probably sit in the “Literature” sections in Kinokuniya.
Much that I realize I cannot make mystery plots, I long to be able to write stories with more subtle plots, like…*gulp*…those books sitting in the Literature section. Make that not quite “longing to be able”, but “believe to be able”. I have been writing on and off since first grade, but so far can only finish a handful of short stories. In 2005 I participated in “National Novel Writing Month” and found out what I believed was true: I am never meant to write novels. At least, not yet. In my logic, to be able to write a novel one must be able to write a short story first. A friend who majored in English literature said this wasn’t true. “It is more about finding your forte”, he said. “A poet doesn’t write prose, a novelist doesn’t write short stories.”
But, but: how could one write two pages before writing one? How could you muster up 10 characters before coming up with 1 or 2? Therefore, I think short-stories are the foundations of novels. And the strangest thing is, until 2005 I thought I could write short-stories. Until Marianne mentioned that articles and essays were so much easier to write. Until I figured that all these years when I wrote only half-finished stories, I actually finished lot of essays. I have blissfully ignored this fact almost all my life. Am misled to total blindness.
The funny thing is, I just won’t let this belief go away. This year I got a short story published, and although the editor did so many changes in it I couldn’t recognise the story as my own, the fact remains that I could get a short story published.
Something in me still laments every now and then, about the stories I needed to tell. Every time I take a shower I tell myself stories I believe can make it to the paper someday. The strong characters and lucid plots I don’t have, but somehow the belief just won’t budge.
Maybe it’s ignorance, blind enthusiasm, or sheer stupidity. But this one belief is what keeps me afloat most days, and I know by 8 PM tonight, in the shower I shall tell myself yet another short story.
I have been misled so many times in life. Oh no you wouldn’t want to know what things I had once believed so dearly, the things I needed years to find out to be horribly wrong.
I have now come to suspect that the deep-rooted belief I’ve had since childhood, that I could actually write fiction, is also a misleading one.
It all started rather innocently. I started reading when I was five, and finished my first Enid Blyton book in the first grade. (Before that, it was the full version of all-text no-graphics Bambi, which was more than 100 pages, and Helen Keller’s biography. Yes, from my choice of books at 5 years old, you could safely assume that I’d grow up to be a very boring woman). I first read Agatha Christie’s books when I was in fifth grade. I have a soft spot for mystery books until now, but since 1992 I’ve grown very fond of the stories told by Amy Tan, Wally Lamb, Barbara Kingsolver (The Poisonwood Bible!), Jeffrey Eugenides (The Middlesex!).…you know, the books which will most probably sit in the “Literature” sections in Kinokuniya.
Much that I realize I cannot make mystery plots, I long to be able to write stories with more subtle plots, like…*gulp*…those books sitting in the Literature section. Make that not quite “longing to be able”, but “believe to be able”. I have been writing on and off since first grade, but so far can only finish a handful of short stories. In 2005 I participated in “National Novel Writing Month” and found out what I believed was true: I am never meant to write novels. At least, not yet. In my logic, to be able to write a novel one must be able to write a short story first. A friend who majored in English literature said this wasn’t true. “It is more about finding your forte”, he said. “A poet doesn’t write prose, a novelist doesn’t write short stories.”
But, but: how could one write two pages before writing one? How could you muster up 10 characters before coming up with 1 or 2? Therefore, I think short-stories are the foundations of novels. And the strangest thing is, until 2005 I thought I could write short-stories. Until Marianne mentioned that articles and essays were so much easier to write. Until I figured that all these years when I wrote only half-finished stories, I actually finished lot of essays. I have blissfully ignored this fact almost all my life. Am misled to total blindness.
The funny thing is, I just won’t let this belief go away. This year I got a short story published, and although the editor did so many changes in it I couldn’t recognise the story as my own, the fact remains that I could get a short story published.
Something in me still laments every now and then, about the stories I needed to tell. Every time I take a shower I tell myself stories I believe can make it to the paper someday. The strong characters and lucid plots I don’t have, but somehow the belief just won’t budge.
Maybe it’s ignorance, blind enthusiasm, or sheer stupidity. But this one belief is what keeps me afloat most days, and I know by 8 PM tonight, in the shower I shall tell myself yet another short story.
Monday, December 07, 2009
TENACITY
Let me tell you the secret that has led me to my goal. My strength lies solely in my tenacity. ~ Louis Pasteur (1822 - 1895)
More than ever now, I need to plow on through all this mess and heartache and anger and remind myself that the finish line is the only way to go.
More than ever now, I need to plow on through all this mess and heartache and anger and remind myself that the finish line is the only way to go.
Friday, November 27, 2009
THE ART OF PUTTING EVERYTHING OFF TO TOMORROW
A perfect method for adding drama to life is to wait until the deadline looms large. ~ Alyce P. Cornyn-Selby, Procrastinator's Success Kit.
Good God knows I've been procrastinating too much. Well maybe not too much. But most probably significant enough. I am trying to meet the December 17 deadline regarding Research II Examination. My draft keeps being rejected though, I think thus far I have been re-writing my entire draft 6 times since late October. Now, seems like there would be at least (!) two more re-writing stages before I can finally submit the manuscript.
Then after that, the dreaded exam. Hopefully I would be able to make it in December or January, or else I'd be a dead turkey.
Wish me luck.
Good God knows I've been procrastinating too much. Well maybe not too much. But most probably significant enough. I am trying to meet the December 17 deadline regarding Research II Examination. My draft keeps being rejected though, I think thus far I have been re-writing my entire draft 6 times since late October. Now, seems like there would be at least (!) two more re-writing stages before I can finally submit the manuscript.
Then after that, the dreaded exam. Hopefully I would be able to make it in December or January, or else I'd be a dead turkey.
Wish me luck.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
YEARNING
There are three ingredients in the good life: learning, earning, and yearning. ~ Christopher Morley (1890 - 1957)
I am yearning to write again in this blog, and to write a short-story, actually. Heh.
Life has been - constant. Very ordinary. Which is good. I love ordinary days with nothing important happening. Last month I went on a holiday, which turned out disastrous in a way. But I've moved on, as humans always have under conditions which do not kill them. Last month, I also finished a paper and submitted it to a journal (despite the pain of that last rejection which is still fresh til today, gyahaha). In the first two weeks of this month, I worked on another paper draft, and on the intermediate progress report for a research funded by the DGHE. Next Monday I am scheduled to do a presentation of this report.
Gee. I am bored myself reading the above paragraph. I really yearn to write a nice short story to distract myself from school papers and reports.
But, but. How should I begin it? This past month, everything I wrote began with the word: Abstract. (Doh.) Not a nice enough word to start a deeply romantic short story I am yearning to be able to write!
Oh but I will not defer. Gyahahaha. In two weeks I shall produce a short-story. I read somewhere that writers should not sit around waiting for their Muses, they must hunt down the Muses and drag them home by the hair.
So I'll do that. Visit me in two weeks, and I promise I'll have written a short story by then.
*Gulp*
I am yearning to write again in this blog, and to write a short-story, actually. Heh.
Life has been - constant. Very ordinary. Which is good. I love ordinary days with nothing important happening. Last month I went on a holiday, which turned out disastrous in a way. But I've moved on, as humans always have under conditions which do not kill them. Last month, I also finished a paper and submitted it to a journal (despite the pain of that last rejection which is still fresh til today, gyahaha). In the first two weeks of this month, I worked on another paper draft, and on the intermediate progress report for a research funded by the DGHE. Next Monday I am scheduled to do a presentation of this report.
Gee. I am bored myself reading the above paragraph. I really yearn to write a nice short story to distract myself from school papers and reports.
But, but. How should I begin it? This past month, everything I wrote began with the word: Abstract. (Doh.) Not a nice enough word to start a deeply romantic short story I am yearning to be able to write!
Oh but I will not defer. Gyahahaha. In two weeks I shall produce a short-story. I read somewhere that writers should not sit around waiting for their Muses, they must hunt down the Muses and drag them home by the hair.
So I'll do that. Visit me in two weeks, and I promise I'll have written a short story by then.
*Gulp*
Thursday, September 10, 2009
ENDINGS
On the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down. ~ Woody Allen (1935 - )
In the period of July to August, there were more deaths than I could handle. A friend (who was also the wife of a friend) died on July 20. I am embarrassed to admit that I cried in the funeral while others looked so calm, but I just couldn't help it. Then a very close friend's dad died. Then just a few days later, another friend's dad died. Then a friend's son died.
At this point, I told R that there had been too many deaths lately.
A few days later R's dad died.
Seeing R in grief was one of the worst thing I have ever had to endure. I couldn't imagine how he felt. All I know is that he was never close to his dad (the way I am never close to mine) and he literally had been spending his adult days trying to avoid his dad. There were a lot of complications in that family that I will be forever shielded from, or as R put it: "You know too little." So there I was - watching how R walked, talked, moved, all in grievance. I watched how broken his mom was, and I was terrified at the thought that I might have to bury R someday. This horrid thought was nothing new - half of the things running in my brains are always horrid - but on that hot sunny day I choked at the thought, almost begging to God to please let me go first because I simply could not ever put R under the earth.
So.
I am obviously not in the best mind-frame after that many funerals in just over a month. However, R is recovering pretty elegantly, I'd say. If there is a person on earth who is always at peace with himself, then it must be R. I saw how he picked himself up again, almost effortlessly, and suddenly he was back in the kitchen cooking our meals.
His mom, I think, still hasn't recovered up to now. She now asks all of her children to take turns accompanying him at her house, so from now on, because R's turn is on the weekends, I do not have the luxury of spending my weekends with him.
It is rather sad, I guess. But there is no other way.
By the way, I guess I am gonna stop taking translation orders. I already lost patience with them. Hmm. And THR money is not here yet. Hmm. It's already Thursday. Something good must happen tomorrow, so this week won't be so bleak.
In the period of July to August, there were more deaths than I could handle. A friend (who was also the wife of a friend) died on July 20. I am embarrassed to admit that I cried in the funeral while others looked so calm, but I just couldn't help it. Then a very close friend's dad died. Then just a few days later, another friend's dad died. Then a friend's son died.
At this point, I told R that there had been too many deaths lately.
A few days later R's dad died.
Seeing R in grief was one of the worst thing I have ever had to endure. I couldn't imagine how he felt. All I know is that he was never close to his dad (the way I am never close to mine) and he literally had been spending his adult days trying to avoid his dad. There were a lot of complications in that family that I will be forever shielded from, or as R put it: "You know too little." So there I was - watching how R walked, talked, moved, all in grievance. I watched how broken his mom was, and I was terrified at the thought that I might have to bury R someday. This horrid thought was nothing new - half of the things running in my brains are always horrid - but on that hot sunny day I choked at the thought, almost begging to God to please let me go first because I simply could not ever put R under the earth.
So.
I am obviously not in the best mind-frame after that many funerals in just over a month. However, R is recovering pretty elegantly, I'd say. If there is a person on earth who is always at peace with himself, then it must be R. I saw how he picked himself up again, almost effortlessly, and suddenly he was back in the kitchen cooking our meals.
His mom, I think, still hasn't recovered up to now. She now asks all of her children to take turns accompanying him at her house, so from now on, because R's turn is on the weekends, I do not have the luxury of spending my weekends with him.
It is rather sad, I guess. But there is no other way.
By the way, I guess I am gonna stop taking translation orders. I already lost patience with them. Hmm. And THR money is not here yet. Hmm. It's already Thursday. Something good must happen tomorrow, so this week won't be so bleak.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
A NECESSITY OF LIFE
To err is human, but to really foul things up requires a computer.~ Farmers' Almanac, 1978
On June 9th, the unthinkable happened. My computer broke down. With it, gone were my collection of school-related papers (147 of them, at last count), my simulations (97 of them), my picture collection, my letters, my heart my brain my everything (errrrrr okay now I'm overdoing it a bit).
Before it died completely (yes, only at the last moment) I backed up everything in CD's and flashdisks, but me being me, I still lost some documents.
A friend of my sister's helped me to revive it, but it only lasted 2 weeks before it died on me again. This time, I went to a young guy who helped me set up my desktop two years ago. He said I needed to reinstall the Windows, so I did. After a week or so, again, the computer broke down. I decided to take it to an authorized service centre then, paying Rp 220thousands just to hear them saying what I had already known: The Windows has to be re-installed.
Hell no, I told them, I'm not gonna let you re-install the Windows only. I want you to check the memory, the hard-disk, and everything mounted on the motherboard. All in all it took me about 1.5 months without my computer, during which time I took on a rather big translating project. I used my nephew's and husband's computers to finish the project, and sloughed off school work because doing my school work bordered on impossible on computers that are not mine. For instance, I used Mathcad and Matlab, both of which cannot run on my nephew's and husband's computers. I was also fussy about the keyboards on those two computers, being used with the light keyboard of my own computer. Typing 200 pages using a hard-to-use keyboard was hardwork. Gyah.
Anyway. I am hoping that my computer will work out fine from now on. Just this morning, suddenly it restarted on its own when I inserted a flashdisk. My heart almost stopped. There was a spyware in the flashdisk, and believe you me, now a spyware or a computer virus scare me the way swine flu scares the whole nation. I proceeded to kill the spyware, and cradled my computer dearly. Do not die on me again, you hear me? I love you too much and I suspect that I cannot live without you.
I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them. ~ Isaac Asimov (1920 - 1992)
On June 9th, the unthinkable happened. My computer broke down. With it, gone were my collection of school-related papers (147 of them, at last count), my simulations (97 of them), my picture collection, my letters, my heart my brain my everything (errrrrr okay now I'm overdoing it a bit).
Before it died completely (yes, only at the last moment) I backed up everything in CD's and flashdisks, but me being me, I still lost some documents.
A friend of my sister's helped me to revive it, but it only lasted 2 weeks before it died on me again. This time, I went to a young guy who helped me set up my desktop two years ago. He said I needed to reinstall the Windows, so I did. After a week or so, again, the computer broke down. I decided to take it to an authorized service centre then, paying Rp 220thousands just to hear them saying what I had already known: The Windows has to be re-installed.
Hell no, I told them, I'm not gonna let you re-install the Windows only. I want you to check the memory, the hard-disk, and everything mounted on the motherboard. All in all it took me about 1.5 months without my computer, during which time I took on a rather big translating project. I used my nephew's and husband's computers to finish the project, and sloughed off school work because doing my school work bordered on impossible on computers that are not mine. For instance, I used Mathcad and Matlab, both of which cannot run on my nephew's and husband's computers. I was also fussy about the keyboards on those two computers, being used with the light keyboard of my own computer. Typing 200 pages using a hard-to-use keyboard was hardwork. Gyah.
Anyway. I am hoping that my computer will work out fine from now on. Just this morning, suddenly it restarted on its own when I inserted a flashdisk. My heart almost stopped. There was a spyware in the flashdisk, and believe you me, now a spyware or a computer virus scare me the way swine flu scares the whole nation. I proceeded to kill the spyware, and cradled my computer dearly. Do not die on me again, you hear me? I love you too much and I suspect that I cannot live without you.
I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them. ~ Isaac Asimov (1920 - 1992)
Monday, July 27, 2009
THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS
A person is never happy except at the price of some ignorance. ~ Anatole France (1844 - 1924)
Nice coffee in a simple clean cup.
Good books.
A nice bench to read the good books.
New notebooks.
A working computer, with working internet connection.
Freshly made bed, with a fresh bedsheet that fits snugly to the mattress.
A voice in your chest saying you are all okay, and you have always been and you will always be.
Nice coffee in a simple clean cup.
Good books.
A nice bench to read the good books.
New notebooks.
A working computer, with working internet connection.
Freshly made bed, with a fresh bedsheet that fits snugly to the mattress.
A voice in your chest saying you are all okay, and you have always been and you will always be.
Friday, May 29, 2009
MAYDAY. CALLING FOR CHEESECAKES.
All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible. ~ William Faulkner (1897 - 1962)
The month of May in summary: Biology project: failed. Submission to international journal: failed. Research I Examination: succeeded.
A few days before the exam, I had asked R for a cheesecake treat whatever the outcome of the exam was. So my motivation to get through the day (it was on May 22) was not to answer all the questions from the board of examiners skillfully and elegantly, but to feed my face silly with rum & raisin cheesecake within the next 24 hours.
But I couldn’t stay happy for long: the afternoon after the exam, I found a rejection e-mail from the international journal’s editor, and was consumed with such deep grief it was surprising even to myself. R went as far as buying me a fancy dinner (correction: fancy for our standards, mediocre perhaps for others) that day, but I was so upset with the bad news I couldn’t enjoy it. Good God it was so hard to put on a happy face when one’s paper is rejected by a journal, ha. The next day he took me to the cheesecake shop and I tried so hard to forget that rejection letter with every bite of my cookies & cream cake.
Finally a consolation came last Tuesday when I found out that I had succeeded in the exam.
I am still delirious. Half of me wants to stop working for two months straight and go on holiday, while the other half keeps whispering there is no time left, there is no time left.
Hell, one year left, let’s see if I can make it in one year. I suspect it will take more than a single dose of cheesecake per month to get through this mess I have created for myself.
PS. I want capuccino cheesecake next.
The month of May in summary: Biology project: failed. Submission to international journal: failed. Research I Examination: succeeded.
A few days before the exam, I had asked R for a cheesecake treat whatever the outcome of the exam was. So my motivation to get through the day (it was on May 22) was not to answer all the questions from the board of examiners skillfully and elegantly, but to feed my face silly with rum & raisin cheesecake within the next 24 hours.
But I couldn’t stay happy for long: the afternoon after the exam, I found a rejection e-mail from the international journal’s editor, and was consumed with such deep grief it was surprising even to myself. R went as far as buying me a fancy dinner (correction: fancy for our standards, mediocre perhaps for others) that day, but I was so upset with the bad news I couldn’t enjoy it. Good God it was so hard to put on a happy face when one’s paper is rejected by a journal, ha. The next day he took me to the cheesecake shop and I tried so hard to forget that rejection letter with every bite of my cookies & cream cake.
Finally a consolation came last Tuesday when I found out that I had succeeded in the exam.
I am still delirious. Half of me wants to stop working for two months straight and go on holiday, while the other half keeps whispering there is no time left, there is no time left.
Hell, one year left, let’s see if I can make it in one year. I suspect it will take more than a single dose of cheesecake per month to get through this mess I have created for myself.
PS. I want capuccino cheesecake next.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
KITTY CRAZY
One must be sane to think clearly, but one can think deeply and be quite insane. ~ Nikola Tesla (1857 - 1943), Modern Mechanics and Inventions. July, 1934
I can console myself all I want, but the truth is I haven't made much progress at school. The same classmate who mocked me about my papers now mocked me about not having taken the first research examination yet (I'll console myself again by stating the fact here that that classmate has neither had a paper published, nor taken that first research examination).
So this is what I have to say about school so far: fudge it.
Now let us move on to the more, errr, cheerful part. You know how much R wants a child. He has been longing for one forever, I think he once even mentioned he has wanted one since he was in high school (yes yes I cannot imagine how a male can have such instinct either. Meanwhile, I have been having my periods for twenty years now, but my motherly instinct is pretty much non-existent).
He is the one who will stop eating/talking/reading when a commercial featuring babies come on TV. (I swear I don't dare to check whether he gets misty-eyed watching those commercials. Finding he actually does get misty scares the bejesus out of me). He told me which colleagues were expecting and how long they waited til they finally got pregnant. He said gently "She is still feeding her babies" when I commented that a stray cat who usually begged for food at our door at exactly 5.30 AM each day, lately had been showing up an hour late. He once actually tried to find out where that ugly cat kept the kittens, and lying in bed one night, he told me how beautiful they were.
Ah. But the worse is yet to come.
One early evening, as we arrived home from work, he took me to see those kittens. Yes, barbaric and heartless as I am, I still found them surprisingly beautiful. There were four of them, staring at me with their liquid eyes, and R kept make low hisses that sounded comforting even to me. Then the mother came running and proceeded to groom the kittens and something inside me just, errrrr, stirred. I swear I could feel that R wanted a child so badly he almost adopted the kittens and married that super-fertile cat, I'd say.
Now, like I wrote sometime back, he already told me that he was okay with an option of never having a child, if I opted for that. And I know he said that genuinely. I of course thought hard and long about it, until a friend who delayed having a child for 6 years told me that his wife was expecting. He said, he actually didn't really want a child, but he couldn't force his wife to live his choice. "It is unfair to marry a person, and forever deny her longing for a child. I might as well did not marry her at all in the first place," he told me.
That statement threw me. Of course I had known it for a long time, but to actually heard it said, still threw me. If anything, R is one of the best dad material I have ever come across in my life. How could I deny his need for a child? What reason I have to deprive him of it? I know I can rest assured that if we have a child, he will take good care of it. I know he will even get as far as letting me stay in campus all day whenever I want to, and he will take care of the diapering and the whining all day without complaining.
We have been trying for a child for about four months now.
Bottom line is, this research work and this kitten business is driving me completely insane. What other explanation can there be? This barbaric and heartless woman now tracks her ovulation times carefully. If you do not want any children in life, be warned: never, ever work in research, and never, ever have any contacts with kittens.
Could you please wish me luck for this month? You can wish me luck for a research exam ending with good results, or you can wish me luck for a conception. I am already too insane to know the difference between the two.
I can console myself all I want, but the truth is I haven't made much progress at school. The same classmate who mocked me about my papers now mocked me about not having taken the first research examination yet (I'll console myself again by stating the fact here that that classmate has neither had a paper published, nor taken that first research examination).
So this is what I have to say about school so far: fudge it.
Now let us move on to the more, errr, cheerful part. You know how much R wants a child. He has been longing for one forever, I think he once even mentioned he has wanted one since he was in high school (yes yes I cannot imagine how a male can have such instinct either. Meanwhile, I have been having my periods for twenty years now, but my motherly instinct is pretty much non-existent).
He is the one who will stop eating/talking/reading when a commercial featuring babies come on TV. (I swear I don't dare to check whether he gets misty-eyed watching those commercials. Finding he actually does get misty scares the bejesus out of me). He told me which colleagues were expecting and how long they waited til they finally got pregnant. He said gently "She is still feeding her babies" when I commented that a stray cat who usually begged for food at our door at exactly 5.30 AM each day, lately had been showing up an hour late. He once actually tried to find out where that ugly cat kept the kittens, and lying in bed one night, he told me how beautiful they were.
Ah. But the worse is yet to come.
One early evening, as we arrived home from work, he took me to see those kittens. Yes, barbaric and heartless as I am, I still found them surprisingly beautiful. There were four of them, staring at me with their liquid eyes, and R kept make low hisses that sounded comforting even to me. Then the mother came running and proceeded to groom the kittens and something inside me just, errrrr, stirred. I swear I could feel that R wanted a child so badly he almost adopted the kittens and married that super-fertile cat, I'd say.
Now, like I wrote sometime back, he already told me that he was okay with an option of never having a child, if I opted for that. And I know he said that genuinely. I of course thought hard and long about it, until a friend who delayed having a child for 6 years told me that his wife was expecting. He said, he actually didn't really want a child, but he couldn't force his wife to live his choice. "It is unfair to marry a person, and forever deny her longing for a child. I might as well did not marry her at all in the first place," he told me.
That statement threw me. Of course I had known it for a long time, but to actually heard it said, still threw me. If anything, R is one of the best dad material I have ever come across in my life. How could I deny his need for a child? What reason I have to deprive him of it? I know I can rest assured that if we have a child, he will take good care of it. I know he will even get as far as letting me stay in campus all day whenever I want to, and he will take care of the diapering and the whining all day without complaining.
We have been trying for a child for about four months now.
Bottom line is, this research work and this kitten business is driving me completely insane. What other explanation can there be? This barbaric and heartless woman now tracks her ovulation times carefully. If you do not want any children in life, be warned: never, ever work in research, and never, ever have any contacts with kittens.
Could you please wish me luck for this month? You can wish me luck for a research exam ending with good results, or you can wish me luck for a conception. I am already too insane to know the difference between the two.
Monday, April 27, 2009
IT AIN'T GETTING ANYWHERE
Kyaaa.
Only 3 days left of April, still no exam. But at least today I got an okay from both supervisors to submit my proposal. Meaning, I'll take the exam sometime in May, and the time is too tight to take another exam before this semester ends.
Oh shoot.
Only 3 days left of April, still no exam. But at least today I got an okay from both supervisors to submit my proposal. Meaning, I'll take the exam sometime in May, and the time is too tight to take another exam before this semester ends.
Oh shoot.
Friday, April 10, 2009
A GRANT TOO MANY
Stress is an ignorant state. It believes that everything is an emergency. Nothing is that important. ~ (Natalie Goldberg)
In the last day of March, I got news that my research proposal to the Directorate General of Higher Education was approved and I was to be awarded with a grant. This was a surprise, because of several reasons. One, I don’t think I succeeded with the presentation last November. I wrote a post about it, which basically consists of nothing but curses. Two, I didn’t put the prof’s name in the proposal, for some complicated reasons. Hence I had been secretly hoping the proposal wouldn’t get through, so as to save me from further complications.
I couldn’t decide whether this was a pleasant or unpleasant surprise. I have e-mailed the research center of the campus where I am employed telling them that I couldn’t accept this grant because I already accepted another grant just this February, which was also from the DG of HE. Of course, they pleaded and pleaded that I took it, saying this was a rare occasion. They even went as far as asking whether they could put another person’s name in the proposal instead of mine, if the DG of HE prohibited me from taking two grants at the same time. Nice bunch of people they are, hm?
All in the same time, I am under a lot of pressures I create for myself, heh. I am dying to take an exam this April, and hopefully another in July. All of these, plus of course the hundreds of exam papers I have to mark, free of charge, being a servant of my co-supervisor. Let’s just hope that I can back out from one of the grants anyway, so that I can manage my work without too much extra stomach acid flowing inside me.
I have learnt so far that one thing worse than having too much to do is not to know whether there will be an end of it. Since October last year I had been pushing hard to take an exam in December at the latest, but since the prof was reluctant, I backed out. Now it’s already April and I still haven’t taken the exam. It’s really getting so booooorinnggggg doing my research without a deadline.
But but: taking an exam requires thorough preparation. As it is, I am already too bored to revise. Heh heh. Duh let’s just hope they’ll let me pass this one exam please…I want to get this one done and over with.
Meanwhile I think my stomach acid has build up again. Hmmm. Time for another cup of coffee, yes? Let’s put more acid into that acid. Gulp gulp.
In the last day of March, I got news that my research proposal to the Directorate General of Higher Education was approved and I was to be awarded with a grant. This was a surprise, because of several reasons. One, I don’t think I succeeded with the presentation last November. I wrote a post about it, which basically consists of nothing but curses. Two, I didn’t put the prof’s name in the proposal, for some complicated reasons. Hence I had been secretly hoping the proposal wouldn’t get through, so as to save me from further complications.
I couldn’t decide whether this was a pleasant or unpleasant surprise. I have e-mailed the research center of the campus where I am employed telling them that I couldn’t accept this grant because I already accepted another grant just this February, which was also from the DG of HE. Of course, they pleaded and pleaded that I took it, saying this was a rare occasion. They even went as far as asking whether they could put another person’s name in the proposal instead of mine, if the DG of HE prohibited me from taking two grants at the same time. Nice bunch of people they are, hm?
All in the same time, I am under a lot of pressures I create for myself, heh. I am dying to take an exam this April, and hopefully another in July. All of these, plus of course the hundreds of exam papers I have to mark, free of charge, being a servant of my co-supervisor. Let’s just hope that I can back out from one of the grants anyway, so that I can manage my work without too much extra stomach acid flowing inside me.
I have learnt so far that one thing worse than having too much to do is not to know whether there will be an end of it. Since October last year I had been pushing hard to take an exam in December at the latest, but since the prof was reluctant, I backed out. Now it’s already April and I still haven’t taken the exam. It’s really getting so booooorinnggggg doing my research without a deadline.
But but: taking an exam requires thorough preparation. As it is, I am already too bored to revise. Heh heh. Duh let’s just hope they’ll let me pass this one exam please…I want to get this one done and over with.
Meanwhile I think my stomach acid has build up again. Hmmm. Time for another cup of coffee, yes? Let’s put more acid into that acid. Gulp gulp.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
What Will The World Say?
The term NPWP has been buzzing around like an annoying bee since late last year, and I am one of the millions of people affected by the scheme the Government so sweetly trap us in: get an NPWP or die.
The funny thing is, I am actually not one of those people getting their first NPWP’s in 2008 or early 2009. No Ma’am, I got mine back in 2003. If you have been reading my blog for years (I know, nobody has) you might have noticed a particular post I wrote back in 2004 about a tax problem I had. I got an NPWP so early because back then I worked in a multinational company, and the government were so keen to press on the employees of MNC’s to get NPWP’s. Well, being a good citizen (too good, perhaps) even though I quit my job later that year, and earned perhaps less than the minimum wage doing a part time job instead, in 2004 I counted what I owed to the country. I made a payment to the post office, then sent my tax report to the tax office.
Later that year I got a summon from the tax office, saying that I was penalized for not reporting my income. WTF? After so much efforts, all the tax office could say to me was that they didn’t receive whatever I sent by post. I had no idea where my teeny-tiny sum of hard-earned money went, til today. The tax officer said I should pay the penalty and went on to appeal to tax court, because I had complete records that I had actually paid my tax. Bah. I paid and never bothered to appeal, as you can read in that old blog post of mine.
And this is what happened next: because we had moved house, I changed my KTP within the next 3 years. And I – rather purposefully – decided to report my finance situation to the tax office. For years. And years.
Fast forward to 2008: the sunset policy is on full force. The campus made me an NPWP (gulp). It was so easy to get one, the campus only turned in a copy of my KTP and suddenly I had an all new NPWP. And me, the stupid gook, I had been watching all those sunset policy commercials without once thinking I needed to report to the tax office (re my old NPWP). I thought, they would never be able to figure out that I had 2 NPWP’s, because I had changed my KTP.
Despite some friends warnings, it turned out that I was right, the reason they gave me a new NPWP was because they couldn’t track whether I had had an NPWP before. But the problem now is to deactivate one of the NPWP’s because there is no way in hell I want to have two NPWP’s.
Oh well, to make a long story short (short??? Short???) around two weeks ago I turned in a letter pleading the Kebayoran Lama tax office to deactivate my old NPWP, then turned in my yearly report to the Serpong tax office.
Let’s hope my old NPWP just die peacefully without my ever being put in trouble because of its short and wretched existence. Amen.
The funny thing is, I am actually not one of those people getting their first NPWP’s in 2008 or early 2009. No Ma’am, I got mine back in 2003. If you have been reading my blog for years (I know, nobody has) you might have noticed a particular post I wrote back in 2004 about a tax problem I had. I got an NPWP so early because back then I worked in a multinational company, and the government were so keen to press on the employees of MNC’s to get NPWP’s. Well, being a good citizen (too good, perhaps) even though I quit my job later that year, and earned perhaps less than the minimum wage doing a part time job instead, in 2004 I counted what I owed to the country. I made a payment to the post office, then sent my tax report to the tax office.
Later that year I got a summon from the tax office, saying that I was penalized for not reporting my income. WTF? After so much efforts, all the tax office could say to me was that they didn’t receive whatever I sent by post. I had no idea where my teeny-tiny sum of hard-earned money went, til today. The tax officer said I should pay the penalty and went on to appeal to tax court, because I had complete records that I had actually paid my tax. Bah. I paid and never bothered to appeal, as you can read in that old blog post of mine.
And this is what happened next: because we had moved house, I changed my KTP within the next 3 years. And I – rather purposefully – decided to report my finance situation to the tax office. For years. And years.
Fast forward to 2008: the sunset policy is on full force. The campus made me an NPWP (gulp). It was so easy to get one, the campus only turned in a copy of my KTP and suddenly I had an all new NPWP. And me, the stupid gook, I had been watching all those sunset policy commercials without once thinking I needed to report to the tax office (re my old NPWP). I thought, they would never be able to figure out that I had 2 NPWP’s, because I had changed my KTP.
Despite some friends warnings, it turned out that I was right, the reason they gave me a new NPWP was because they couldn’t track whether I had had an NPWP before. But the problem now is to deactivate one of the NPWP’s because there is no way in hell I want to have two NPWP’s.
Oh well, to make a long story short (short??? Short???) around two weeks ago I turned in a letter pleading the Kebayoran Lama tax office to deactivate my old NPWP, then turned in my yearly report to the Serpong tax office.
Let’s hope my old NPWP just die peacefully without my ever being put in trouble because of its short and wretched existence. Amen.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
A DEEP FOREST, ALL NICE AND SCARY.
Research is the process of going up alleys to see if they are blind. ~Marston Bates
Usually at 4.30am, when consciousness slowly creeps into my mind, I count the things I have to do. One of which, the scariest one, is a foray into the forest.
Doing my research is like a solo expedition into a forest, I can only step in each day, not knowing what gory creature is waiting for me. I have no food, no light, no communications means whatsoever to bring into the forest, no consolation at all. As a loner growing more and more anti-social with age, I feel like I am actually at the right place. The fear is not from knowing I am alone, but in recognizing the lack of confidence I have. Honestly, I can enjoy digging deeper and deeper into the dark forest, looking carefully at each blade of grass, each petal of flower I find, without ever worrying whether I will ever see the sunlight again. But much as I enjoy digging in the darkness, I know I can't afford all the time in the world. Very soon, very soon I have to leave, bringing with me evidences that I have named all the blades of grass, all flowers. And really, packing up and leaving takes guts. By God do they take guts. Guts are something I happen to have too little of. Guts, and confidence.
This year is a very important one. I keep telling myself that this year I have to have a paper published in an international journal. That way, next year all I have to do is finish whatever exams I might have without worrying that the board of examiners will veto my work on the basis that it is not internationally recognized.
If you're willing to take a Ph.D in this country, be warned that you might have more than one paper published in international proceedings, only to be told that it's not enough. Despite the academic rule which say it is indeed enough to have one paper published in international proceedings and another in an accredited national journal, nothing is like being published in international journal. It's a solid, non-debatable evident that your work is accepted by your peers.
No I dont regret having my preliminary works published 'only' in international proceedings, although a friend snickered and uttered some belittling comments. I am not a tough person and tend to crumble easily, so it kinda surprised me when I didn't even feel bad upon hearing his negative remarks. I must be very okay with all my efforts, then, that people can belittle them yet I still feel at peace knowing at least I myself appreciate what I have done.
Now. I have to really gather up some self-confidence and send in at least a paper to an international journal. For this I think I have to use visualization and self-hypnosis and all those *sigh* because everytime I see the paper I write, I cringe. Hiks. Will someone out there think my paper is worthy enough to be published in a journal? An international one?
Can I leave the dark forest sometime soon, although I can actually enjoy staying here in a long time, but yet I have to leave because people outside have been calling my name endlessly?
Can I find my way out, on my own, without food without communication means without the aids of light?
Can I ever see the sunlight again?
Usually at 4.30am, when consciousness slowly creeps into my mind, I count the things I have to do. One of which, the scariest one, is a foray into the forest.
Doing my research is like a solo expedition into a forest, I can only step in each day, not knowing what gory creature is waiting for me. I have no food, no light, no communications means whatsoever to bring into the forest, no consolation at all. As a loner growing more and more anti-social with age, I feel like I am actually at the right place. The fear is not from knowing I am alone, but in recognizing the lack of confidence I have. Honestly, I can enjoy digging deeper and deeper into the dark forest, looking carefully at each blade of grass, each petal of flower I find, without ever worrying whether I will ever see the sunlight again. But much as I enjoy digging in the darkness, I know I can't afford all the time in the world. Very soon, very soon I have to leave, bringing with me evidences that I have named all the blades of grass, all flowers. And really, packing up and leaving takes guts. By God do they take guts. Guts are something I happen to have too little of. Guts, and confidence.
This year is a very important one. I keep telling myself that this year I have to have a paper published in an international journal. That way, next year all I have to do is finish whatever exams I might have without worrying that the board of examiners will veto my work on the basis that it is not internationally recognized.
If you're willing to take a Ph.D in this country, be warned that you might have more than one paper published in international proceedings, only to be told that it's not enough. Despite the academic rule which say it is indeed enough to have one paper published in international proceedings and another in an accredited national journal, nothing is like being published in international journal. It's a solid, non-debatable evident that your work is accepted by your peers.
No I dont regret having my preliminary works published 'only' in international proceedings, although a friend snickered and uttered some belittling comments. I am not a tough person and tend to crumble easily, so it kinda surprised me when I didn't even feel bad upon hearing his negative remarks. I must be very okay with all my efforts, then, that people can belittle them yet I still feel at peace knowing at least I myself appreciate what I have done.
Now. I have to really gather up some self-confidence and send in at least a paper to an international journal. For this I think I have to use visualization and self-hypnosis and all those *sigh* because everytime I see the paper I write, I cringe. Hiks. Will someone out there think my paper is worthy enough to be published in a journal? An international one?
Can I leave the dark forest sometime soon, although I can actually enjoy staying here in a long time, but yet I have to leave because people outside have been calling my name endlessly?
Can I find my way out, on my own, without food without communication means without the aids of light?
Can I ever see the sunlight again?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
BE STUCK AND BE MERRY
I am bit stuck. None of the simulations worked the way I predicted them to. And now I am not sure anymore what I want out of these simulations anyway. The uber-abstract concepts just throw me off balance too many times; I don't know where to hang on anymore. Or what to hang on by.
On a merrier note, yesterday finally the announcement came: I got a research grant from the uni. It's a small amount, but I am still happily surprised because I thought my proposal wasn't even decent.
This can be good for my CV. I am sometimes thrilled at the thought that maybe, just maybe, after so many wrong turns, so many ugly incidents along the 10 years of trying to build a career, I am on the right path all along.
On a merrier note, yesterday finally the announcement came: I got a research grant from the uni. It's a small amount, but I am still happily surprised because I thought my proposal wasn't even decent.
This can be good for my CV. I am sometimes thrilled at the thought that maybe, just maybe, after so many wrong turns, so many ugly incidents along the 10 years of trying to build a career, I am on the right path all along.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
MAKING ME HAPPY THESE PAST FEW DAYS...
1. Ahem. The undergrad students in my class here in Depok called me "Mbak." Yes it sounded as though they confused me with a tukang gorengan, but still. I already told them I was a lecturer in another university..but if they thought I looked that young...welll...harharhar.
2. Another undergrad student (this one wasn't in my class) saw me sitting helplessly waiting for my professor. "Who are you waiting for?" he asked, and I answered. "Oh!" he said. "You're doing your final project with him?" (He actually used the word 'skripsi', which literally meant final-year project for undergrads.) For the rest of the day I basked in the glorious fact that at least one person on this earth thought I looked 23. Well at least he implied that he thought so. Well we cannot be sure. But I'd like to think that he thought so. Harharhar.
3. Nescafe is back in my system. Gyahaha.
2. Another undergrad student (this one wasn't in my class) saw me sitting helplessly waiting for my professor. "Who are you waiting for?" he asked, and I answered. "Oh!" he said. "You're doing your final project with him?" (He actually used the word 'skripsi', which literally meant final-year project for undergrads.) For the rest of the day I basked in the glorious fact that at least one person on this earth thought I looked 23. Well at least he implied that he thought so. Well we cannot be sure. But I'd like to think that he thought so. Harharhar.
3. Nescafe is back in my system. Gyahaha.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
BROKEN SUN
Last Sunday night, with a very steady voice, he said it was okay if I wanted to wait until I finished my Ph.D. This I have heard within the first week of our marriage. At first, actually I had thought that I was definitely willing to try, as long as I had passed my qualification exam. But he said I couldn't handle that much. I remember vividly how he put his palm on my chest back then, gently saying that he knew I could barely cope with everything that stirred inside me.
Good idea, how brilliant, I thought. What a relief. Then came the comments. The snide remarks. Never from him, always from somebody else. And I can't help but feel hurt everytime a comment comes my way.
Sometime last week, I broke down and told him everything. How helpless I felt, how angry I was especially with several comments coming from his family. I wanted to be a man, I told him, I wanted to go early to the office and come home blissfully unaware of what happened at home. I wanted to be a man, I said, so that I would never grow painfully big with a baby inside, and burst myself open to let the baby out. I wanted to be like you, always able to walk out that door every morning minding your own work, never having to worry whether your underwear still fit, whether your breasts are leaking.
He said he was speechless. He got up, walked across the room, went back to sit next to me, got up again, and sat across of me.
I didn't pursue the conversation.
Last night however, wrapping me in his arms, he said in a steady voice that it was okay if I did not want to have any child, forever.
Good idea, how brilliant, I thought. What a relief. Then came the comments. The snide remarks. Never from him, always from somebody else. And I can't help but feel hurt everytime a comment comes my way.
Sometime last week, I broke down and told him everything. How helpless I felt, how angry I was especially with several comments coming from his family. I wanted to be a man, I told him, I wanted to go early to the office and come home blissfully unaware of what happened at home. I wanted to be a man, I said, so that I would never grow painfully big with a baby inside, and burst myself open to let the baby out. I wanted to be like you, always able to walk out that door every morning minding your own work, never having to worry whether your underwear still fit, whether your breasts are leaking.
He said he was speechless. He got up, walked across the room, went back to sit next to me, got up again, and sat across of me.
I didn't pursue the conversation.
Last night however, wrapping me in his arms, he said in a steady voice that it was okay if I did not want to have any child, forever.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
ON OPENING UP A FIRE HYDRANT
That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness
and of love.
--William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
For days now, he had been pressing me to open up. By God, one of the hardest things for me (other than putting on eyeliner and cooking Indomi properly)is to "open up and talk". Look, just look at what happened. I opened up alright, not just my mouth but my giant-sized tear-ducts as well.
There he sat I saw, he watched me have a crying fit with a stricken look across his face, and at the end he wrapped me in his arms and said each and every last one of everything was his fault and that so many things escaped him and that he was to blame.
And here I am sitting in the research room thinking how much I want to sleep with this man.
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness
and of love.
--William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
For days now, he had been pressing me to open up. By God, one of the hardest things for me (other than putting on eyeliner and cooking Indomi properly)is to "open up and talk". Look, just look at what happened. I opened up alright, not just my mouth but my giant-sized tear-ducts as well.
There he sat I saw, he watched me have a crying fit with a stricken look across his face, and at the end he wrapped me in his arms and said each and every last one of everything was his fault and that so many things escaped him and that he was to blame.
And here I am sitting in the research room thinking how much I want to sleep with this man.
Monday, January 26, 2009
A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS
It's a book by Khaled Hosseini, whose first book The Kite Runner is hugely famous, one of the books I decide not to read for fear that it will swell up a sad vein inside me.
But I found a copy of A Thousand Splendid Suns in my parents' room, and was so drawn by the title that I decided to read it anyway. In the inside page I found my father's signature, and below it he wrote a date: 29/11/'07. I also found a bookmark he put inside it, and knew right away that again, he had bought a book with all the good intentions to finish it, only to fail once again.
From the start, it seemed that I couldn't put the book down. It surprised me that a man could write so intimately from a woman's point of view, no, not just a woman, but two women. I always thought it was difficult for one to write from the point of view of the opposite sex: hence Tom Clancy's main characters are always males, the way Amy Tan's are always females.
Nowadays I don't fancy myself as a fiction writer anymore, but whatever wretched little pieces of unfinished stories I write, always have a female main character.
Anyways. This book is simply beautiful. I lay down reading it and finding with a startle that I drew strength from those fictional characters, that I took a journey inside my own heart as I wept through half of the book. Oh yes yours truly lay on the sofa weeping, and believe-you-me, I am one who can manage to cry at the sight of everything: everything, like a stray leaf or a cup of piping hot coffee or a tv commercial featuring kittens (God help us), so it was just normal that I cried over this book. This book tells of women beaten by men, of women washing men's undershirts under the scorching sun, of women cleaning after men, of women put in unimaginable misery. One of the women ended up as a teacher, a profession so dear to my heart, and I was reminded of a much younger version of myself, telling my mom that I would be teaching one day. These last few months I have been pondering about quitting my job and find a "more decent" one. Yet, here I am lying on the couch reading about a fictional woman being a teacher at long last, and getting reminded of how I ended up as a sort of a teacher myself.
The book tells a story of how love actually exists, too. And it tells how the Quran, somewhere among its lines of violence, also contains words of consolation. I don't know what to believe anymore, actually. Real love, I have so far learned, means endless cleaning of the house. The Quran, I have so far learned, says a husband has a right to strike his wife if she "doesn't obey" him. I cannot summon the strength to believe that there are real people, real women, who pray five times a day and recite the Quran, knowing full well that the holy book grants their men the rights to degrade them.
I think the book revived some memories of my childhood too, my teenage years even, when I was eager to look for God. My endless chanting of the surah and the verses of the Quran, and later, my endless questions of why, why, why does God forbid women to pray during their periods. Why so many holy texts refer to a woman's menstruation as a "dirty business" after which she has to wash herself from head to toe. Why a lovemaking is also something dirty we have to wash up after. So dirty we are not allowed to communicate to God after a lovemaking.
Yes, I realize with a sore, I miss being able to kneel on my praying rug without thinking too much. Reading some Quran verses in the book saddened me in a complicated way. Whether I weeped for the main characters, for their pain that I recognise so acutely as mine too, or for the longing of the God I once worshipped without question, I don't know anymore.
But of these, I am sure: the book is a good thirst-quencher, and I am grateful for Khaled Hosseini for having written it. One day perhaps, I can tell you in a more logical way, why exactly I am grateful, on the day I can finally make sense of these tears.
But I found a copy of A Thousand Splendid Suns in my parents' room, and was so drawn by the title that I decided to read it anyway. In the inside page I found my father's signature, and below it he wrote a date: 29/11/'07. I also found a bookmark he put inside it, and knew right away that again, he had bought a book with all the good intentions to finish it, only to fail once again.
From the start, it seemed that I couldn't put the book down. It surprised me that a man could write so intimately from a woman's point of view, no, not just a woman, but two women. I always thought it was difficult for one to write from the point of view of the opposite sex: hence Tom Clancy's main characters are always males, the way Amy Tan's are always females.
Nowadays I don't fancy myself as a fiction writer anymore, but whatever wretched little pieces of unfinished stories I write, always have a female main character.
Anyways. This book is simply beautiful. I lay down reading it and finding with a startle that I drew strength from those fictional characters, that I took a journey inside my own heart as I wept through half of the book. Oh yes yours truly lay on the sofa weeping, and believe-you-me, I am one who can manage to cry at the sight of everything: everything, like a stray leaf or a cup of piping hot coffee or a tv commercial featuring kittens (God help us), so it was just normal that I cried over this book. This book tells of women beaten by men, of women washing men's undershirts under the scorching sun, of women cleaning after men, of women put in unimaginable misery. One of the women ended up as a teacher, a profession so dear to my heart, and I was reminded of a much younger version of myself, telling my mom that I would be teaching one day. These last few months I have been pondering about quitting my job and find a "more decent" one. Yet, here I am lying on the couch reading about a fictional woman being a teacher at long last, and getting reminded of how I ended up as a sort of a teacher myself.
The book tells a story of how love actually exists, too. And it tells how the Quran, somewhere among its lines of violence, also contains words of consolation. I don't know what to believe anymore, actually. Real love, I have so far learned, means endless cleaning of the house. The Quran, I have so far learned, says a husband has a right to strike his wife if she "doesn't obey" him. I cannot summon the strength to believe that there are real people, real women, who pray five times a day and recite the Quran, knowing full well that the holy book grants their men the rights to degrade them.
I think the book revived some memories of my childhood too, my teenage years even, when I was eager to look for God. My endless chanting of the surah and the verses of the Quran, and later, my endless questions of why, why, why does God forbid women to pray during their periods. Why so many holy texts refer to a woman's menstruation as a "dirty business" after which she has to wash herself from head to toe. Why a lovemaking is also something dirty we have to wash up after. So dirty we are not allowed to communicate to God after a lovemaking.
Yes, I realize with a sore, I miss being able to kneel on my praying rug without thinking too much. Reading some Quran verses in the book saddened me in a complicated way. Whether I weeped for the main characters, for their pain that I recognise so acutely as mine too, or for the longing of the God I once worshipped without question, I don't know anymore.
But of these, I am sure: the book is a good thirst-quencher, and I am grateful for Khaled Hosseini for having written it. One day perhaps, I can tell you in a more logical way, why exactly I am grateful, on the day I can finally make sense of these tears.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Variations on the Word Sleep
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head.
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as beathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
(Margaret Atwood)
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head.
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as beathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
(Margaret Atwood)
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
PENNY-PINCHING GALORE
The news that a good friend had been diagnosed with cancer came as a shock. The fragility of life never ceases to surprise me.
I have finally finished writing the book, and I am planning to avert from doing revisions as much as I can. I submitted that darned research proposal on time. Today I guess I am gonna go over my reading materials without falling into daydreams too often.
Anyway. Can you believe I have given up Nescafe for Indocafe? R noted that it was Rp 5000 cheaper than Nescafe, so it went straight into the shopping basket. I kinda stared at it for awhile, thinking how could somebody so dear asked me to give up my Nescafe. I thought, what wouldn't I do to earn that extra Rp 5000. Maybe I need a third job? I've never bought a single new shirt or pair of shoes or bag for the last 4 years, so I know what it means to live simply and frugally. But I need a slice of my cake every now and then (like, every four months or so), and I need...my coffee...everyday.
But! Indocafe turns out not to be so bad. It is in fact, rather good. But before you go and buy your Indocafe, be advised that you shouldn't rely on my judgment only. You know, my common sense is tinted with the need to comply to R's massive need to penny-pinch. And oh, I've been away from my Nescafe for almost a month now. And believe-you-me, when you're too far from you fave coffee for too long, there's nothing left in you to be relied upon, anymore.
I have finally finished writing the book, and I am planning to avert from doing revisions as much as I can. I submitted that darned research proposal on time. Today I guess I am gonna go over my reading materials without falling into daydreams too often.
Anyway. Can you believe I have given up Nescafe for Indocafe? R noted that it was Rp 5000 cheaper than Nescafe, so it went straight into the shopping basket. I kinda stared at it for awhile, thinking how could somebody so dear asked me to give up my Nescafe. I thought, what wouldn't I do to earn that extra Rp 5000. Maybe I need a third job? I've never bought a single new shirt or pair of shoes or bag for the last 4 years, so I know what it means to live simply and frugally. But I need a slice of my cake every now and then (like, every four months or so), and I need...my coffee...everyday.
But! Indocafe turns out not to be so bad. It is in fact, rather good. But before you go and buy your Indocafe, be advised that you shouldn't rely on my judgment only. You know, my common sense is tinted with the need to comply to R's massive need to penny-pinch. And oh, I've been away from my Nescafe for almost a month now. And believe-you-me, when you're too far from you fave coffee for too long, there's nothing left in you to be relied upon, anymore.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thursday, January 08, 2009
WINDOW
No, this post has nothing to do with windows whatsoever. I just couldn't find a correct title for this post, and this famous writer whose blog I absolutely love, titled one of her blog-posts "The Window", so I think, why not?
Anyway. I am now in the campus, having delivered 204 printed pages of my would-be book to my co-promotor, about two hours ago. It's not finished yet, my book, there is still one more chapter to go. He asked me to finish the last chapter by the end of this month. That's big. That's a hard thing to do, but I just couldn't say no. Because something in me said that I could actually do that much that fast. I really hope I can see the book in print. I know my name will be printed below his name, albeit my working on it all by myself for the past year. But it will still be my book.
The co-promotor also asked me to submit a proposal for another research grant, which is due 4 days from now. Right now I guess I'm not surprised anymore whenever somebody asks me to hand in a 40-pages of proposal in 2 days' notice. The thing is, for this particular grant scheme (which deadline is due in 4 days! 4 days!) I need to re-do my current proposal, so as to give it a different angle from the one I submitted to the Higher Education Directorate scheme. I've been sitting at my desk in this deserted research room in the campus, thinking how on God's earth I could do just that.
But something in me, a much sadder, much meaner, and much foolish version of me, say that I can actually do that much, that fast.
So here we are, my logical self doing the blogging, and my mean self whispering "come on now. come on now."
Anyway. I am now in the campus, having delivered 204 printed pages of my would-be book to my co-promotor, about two hours ago. It's not finished yet, my book, there is still one more chapter to go. He asked me to finish the last chapter by the end of this month. That's big. That's a hard thing to do, but I just couldn't say no. Because something in me said that I could actually do that much that fast. I really hope I can see the book in print. I know my name will be printed below his name, albeit my working on it all by myself for the past year. But it will still be my book.
The co-promotor also asked me to submit a proposal for another research grant, which is due 4 days from now. Right now I guess I'm not surprised anymore whenever somebody asks me to hand in a 40-pages of proposal in 2 days' notice. The thing is, for this particular grant scheme (which deadline is due in 4 days! 4 days!) I need to re-do my current proposal, so as to give it a different angle from the one I submitted to the Higher Education Directorate scheme. I've been sitting at my desk in this deserted research room in the campus, thinking how on God's earth I could do just that.
But something in me, a much sadder, much meaner, and much foolish version of me, say that I can actually do that much, that fast.
So here we are, my logical self doing the blogging, and my mean self whispering "come on now. come on now."
Monday, January 05, 2009
SHINE SHINE ON
He bought those sticky plastic sheets and started putting covers on my textbooks.
He put my Crocs on the side, saying he wanted to wash them up.
He put my Crocs on the side, saying he wanted to wash them up.
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