simply

I like the orange best, bumbi… 


We went to Kinokuniya Seibu yesterday. I needed to buy some small, handy, light, well-flowing book as Paulo Cuelhos, I then picked “To Kill a Mockingbird”. Well. I didn’t know yet about the well-flowing words, but for sure it’s light and cheap, hohoho. Not to mention, it’s once said as a pivotal book of the century. So I think, it’s very nice to have something important in my bag within my unimportant days and activities.

Then, after I paid for two magazines and an important book, I went over looking for bumbi. He’s swarming in between comics, history, architecture, and design books. Then he opened a book about Design Anatomy. It shows various of concepts or late designs used to build a brand new design. Then we stopped at Absolut Vodka advertisements. There are six ads, orange, currant, lime, and six other flavors that I don’t recall (am not a huge fan of vodka). The ads are filled with details like you find on Sherina’s and Gita Gutawa’s album covers. Flowery flowing lines.

Then, he asked, “Which one do you like best?, I like this one best (he pointed at the Vodka Curant ad dominates with purple background”

I said, “Okay, based on the detailed pictures in the ad, I like this one (I pointed at an ad dominated with cherish color: it shows an abstract view of new York’s Madison Avenue with its huge billboards), but based on the surreal and whole concept, I like the orange one. Then, based on the sophistication I like the black silver one.

He then said, “I just asked you to choose the best, that simple. You only have to pick one.”

“I can’t. The best can be seen by various categories,” I pleaded

“You’re so complicated. Now, pick one. I’m here to teach you how to be simple.”

After a five minute pause, I said, “Hmmm…I like the orange one best.”

“See? That easy. Don’t weight yourself with complications, unnecessary questions, and considerations. It burdens you and would not be comprehended well by other people.”

I still think that the best can be still seen from various aspects (me and the postmo ego) and bumbi’s there to teach me to be simple. I’m trying both paths now.

I let him in to teach me.

Picture from Getty Images

consumption and gratification

*I like this photo...picture of the victims of a slavery, hehehe. Arief Aziz and me*


This week goes on with complication of mind. I want my life be on its reel based on my personal mood and desire. I want it to be fast-forwarded. And lately I found out that the hardest thing to make a prosperous development in your life is Compromises. I don’t like to learn people’s mind and dealing with their barriers given to people. It is tiring, you know, to try to enter someone’s gate to make a first good impression. I can’t bear much to make an effort first before cooperate with people, trying to grasp the core by entering a labyrinth of judgmental thoughts is not easy for me. I’d prefer my comfort zone, myself, my friends. Is it selfish? Or is it a freewill? I’d prefer an individual job if there’s any. Writer? Is it an individual and selfish job? Teaching? Is it too? What do you think? I’ll change my profession as fast as possible at the beginning of next year. I hope so.

Btw, this is the mid of the year. It’s time to check my 2007 new year’s resolution. Half of them are accomplished, though they are resolutions in the form of CONSUMPTION. Meanwhile, the resolutions in the form of GRATIFICATION haven’t been started yet. Have to move my butt off. They are: Spanish course, piano course, read feminism books, write articles, and work my body out! Hmmph. Oh ya, including attend church mass as frequent as possible (very questionable). Ayo Ovi, semangattt

dying

Suck it through
Centrifuging my thoughts of dark sky
Swamp my shoulders on the door pane
Said her to the air
Breeze me with your raining solitude
With that after-rain smell stopping the bleed in my nose
Swap my face with your indiscriminating touch
Said her to the trespassing wind
I’m not living for a second
It is you standing inside my soul
My mother-nature
Suck it through
Suck my defense
Left nothing but giving
Give the gift and help me through
I’m dying, I’m letting everything in
From you
Mother-nature

solemn desert

When the cycle of solemn solitude reappears
I hold my mind not to fall far
I don’t understand why the stars lights its flash
Blade my hands from watering the sand
Deepest dry eyes from the black veil
I am withdrawing my soul from touching you
When the full moon accompanying the travelers on their camels
Late at night
No one knows what games the stars are playing
Since they just appear for light teasing
To show that they are there and they are the ones that radiate
Unlike the sun
Brightens the land
That’s why travelers are waiting for the day,
But only to wait for the starry night to come
To let themselves being lost while halfly awake
The greatest cluelessness without blame

coming with you i might

Swarming with you is so light
I feel no burden inside
Playing on the field catching balloon flights
Strolling on the grass and pointing at the blue skylight
Oh baby, you’re so an apple on my sight
Bringing the bubbly happy slide that I cannot fight
Even though my mind can’t remember your face right
I feel your figure burning out to my delight

you

I’ve never been there to your island
Though my mind soars with the shouts of anxiety
I’ve never been subly- cultural
Never been there with anger
To bring my projections outside
Never thought of making my soul a concrete pad of stamp
Never tried to pierce, cease, metallite, covering up, blushing up, lipstcking o’er, trying to be different, mocking the pops, stabbing my ears, being scary yet a very good citizen inside.
Though all’s been crossed my mind
I see a seamless kind of being pop and different
All prisons my sole
All has no answer of all anger, disappointment, sadness, and imperfection
No consolation as good as myself
Think it through, should I bring it to a social desperation movement?
I’ve never been there being there with anyone
Now I see u will not drug me either
Since indeed I’ve never been to your island
I’ve never been to your mind
Though my mind soars with the shouts of anxiety

i wanna

I wanna die without knowing people are bad
I wanna close my eyes and not seeing people smirk on my success
I wanna shut my ears without hearing people subordinating me behind my back
I wanna numb my skin to give no rooms for false pats
I wanna blackened my heart so it’ll not be moved by cheap praises
I wanna hang up the phone before rumors are spread further
I wanna be beautiful so I won’t have to try triple-standardly to give contributions
I wanna be funny so everybody will laugh and lose focus on my weaknesses
I wanna be powerful so everyone will hear for all I’ve got to say
I wanna be in an education system again when meritocracy is the only standard
I don’t want to respect people only just because they are older
I disgust social order and organization
Unfortunately, working life lets everything in

drowse

Today the time ticks from celebration to obituary
I am not living here it’s my mind that still prey
My heart has flown away by the breeze of the valley
Pricking wishes into dust of puzzled hopes
Pulled like a sugar candies then melt, scratching the intestine
Doing the best is sure what I’ve got
But myth is sure hard to forgot
Giving realities to be judged non-sense-ly
Sure I can’t convey
Since in the jungle everything chuckles
Can’t judge their happy nice smiles
When everybody just wants you to be drown
Then you are drown

a festival of excelso

Interesting fact: Nearly ninety percent of the people on the first to the third row wore converse shoes with candies colors, jeans, black shirt with cute design or polite and sweet political message like “Nobody Dies Virgin, Coz in the End Life F***s Us All” campaign, “Give Me a Starlight” poster, with jansport or eastpack backpacks with different designs and optimistic colors for their belts.


Bawdy as it may be, being in the Muse gig was clearly a whole lot different experience compared to watching Hanson’s in Score! (mwahaha…iya lah). Despite of their so-much-enjoyable music, with Hanson it was like being herd into a dim place where you will see beautiful men being glimmered in purplish lighting. So, the queue was so ehm, pastel. With Muse. Ok, first thing first. I stood on the second festival row exactly in front of the stage. Matthew Bellamy was so discernible from where I was. Then, the show started with Knights of Cydonia. Exactly at that point, the people become so onerous. FYI, front row of the festival floor was packed with young men with their pastel converses. Before the show started, I thought they would be this selected-whole-new-generation-who-would-and-could-pay-half-million-rupiahs-for-an-hour-semi rock-concert-thus-they-won’t-be-rampage.

But, it is wrong. Suddenly they battered each other. Listen to what the crowd had to say (we communicated in English on the floor, so this not a translated enscription): “Hey dude, chill in!”, “What? You fuckin’ asshole, stop pushing me around”, “Hey, I’m not pushing you, Dude. Everybody in the back was pushing.”, “Hey, what are you doing?!”, “Anjing Babi.”, “Would you just shut up?!”. (I was so much included in this conversation).

Then, when the heat was even more boiling, the bodyguards distributed cold mineral water to the front liners. So, we literally drank from the same bottle together with ten people’s saliva on its tip. We desperately needed it (somehow, we understand what does it like to queue for sembako). Then the shouts began: so, the water distributed was in the bottles in the middle of the songs. So, when you received it you had to jump around with Matt’s falsettos. You could drink only at his minor classical riffs that tone the rhythm down. Thus, sometimes the water was splashed off with the jumping. “Hey girl, don’t waste the water.”, “Hey you stop splash it on my face”, “Whatever.”, “Do you want it/”, “Yeah, water please!”, “Hey stop bitchin’ soakin my shirt, dude!”, “Mas…mas..(to the bodyguards), “Apa? (he gave a bottle of water).”, “ah, enggak Mas, minggir dikit dong, aku nggak bisa liat, nih,hehe.). I was pretty much included on this scoffing as well.

Next, I still had this one chance to clean my hands, I put a pinch of Antis and rub them. “Hmhh… apaan nih?”,”Antis, ya?”,”Hmm..iya kayaknya. Antis Stroberi!.”, “I’m sorry,” I smirked,” Duh, kirain absolut vodka,” said the guy, “antis ada alkoholnya dikit kok mas. Mau?” (This is a real conversation. I don’t know why I even had to clean my hands since there’s no use of it).

While silly shouts and conversations came around the experience went on. See, I wore this strapless bras, and when Muse was singing Plug in Baby (it means, near the end of the show), I realized that they (my bras) had slipped down to my waist for almost an hour of jumping and semi-moshing around. In random, I got sticky sweat in five minutes, which equals to two hours of aerobic class. I got my mitten shirt being pulled down, young guys on my back, left, and right. All of them were curbing and pressing. Literally, I hadn’t had this so close encounter with men for one year. It’s okay, as long as their cute, clean, and dripped with Hugo Boss, Armani, or Ck sweats (Thank God, they’re not smelly). Ok, what am I saying here. In sum, it was nasty, nasty yet highly releasing and loosing experience for my soul. The concert left me with my deeply soaked shirt and hair, perennial fatigue, and a flimsy control of mind. if only they had had a Spa service in the midnight, I’d absolutely go for it.

Then, the juice. I think it was a spiritual experience. Adri Subono as the prime minister of the kingdom who herds and provides the security and pawang ujan for the fans as the worshipper to Muse as the god. Seeing how great they infused the youngsters more than the pundits in our country. We love Mas Adri better than om-om at the Ministry of Education or Hatta Rajasa, since everybody feels save coming to his events. We love Matt better than our representatives at the legislative. Coz these om-om can only make an obscene videos, while Muse has us sing and think:

“Come ride with me
Through the veins of history
I’ll show you how god
Falls asleep on the job

And how we can win
When fools can be kings
Don’t waste your time
Or time will waste you

No one’s gonna take me alive
The time has come to make things right
You and I must fight for our rights
You and I must fight to survive.”


Other interesting facts:

-In total, there were eleven passed-out people being carried out, literally, over my head.
-Beside me, a 150 cms girl from Madiun who had to come by plane to Jakarta and stayed a motel in Blok M, but on the second song, she was also passed out.
-In front of me were four French high school girls, who were undoubtly gorgeous, and Indian guy even had a time to ask for their number in the middle of the show.
These four girls brought digital cameras and they used it in the face of the Indonesian bodyguard. However, the bodyguard yelled to a young boy far away, “Dek, kamu bawa kamera, ya! Awas kamu, kalo gak dimasukkin, nanti saya ambil.”. What a discrimination. (or is it just because he can’t speak English? So he gave an indirect message?)
-I took a picture with Ian Kasela at the end of the concert, mwahahahaha…
-I still think that Suede and The Tears are better than Muse J

Ov, he has a girlfriend!
(what a déjà vu…)

Those that keep me holding on tonight

The Tears CD burned and given by Ayu
Two Creatures on the Run single of The Tears
The Lovers as the Tears’ 7th single
Imperfections by The Tears
The Assylum by the talented Brett Anderson
my brother’s chocolate bun that he brought back home
blank paper
words on the blank paper
light conversation on 102 with my boy friend who just found out that his crush is not a single flyer.

Foolish.foolish.foolish.foolish.foolish.fool.

brushes of myth

Two transparent wings on the white horse’s back floating through the brushes of the deep blue ocean. It slightly drowses, swing the wind up while its four feet touches the wave. Like some dregs of silver stardust flashing its every move. Leaving its home in the cloud to stop by and deliver my brother to the mother earth. It is as my mother’s dream before she bore my baby youngest brother. He was left there with a message that he is just dropped on this earth to visit. Most importantly, he is not my mom’s.
Now he is growing, and it is more frequent for me to quarrelling. Easy as it may be taken, myth will fix your attitude easily, remind you that some principals are there to be the basic guidance of your life. I love my brother more while I am reminded of this myth, that he will not be here forever. Such silliness in the midst of the soul and mind awakening. Moreover when a friend of mine just lost his two younger sisters at a time.

she

she is the one who can rip through the layers on my body
fix it through my eyes, the real thing i wanna see
concealing the make ups
melting the shading
cut my happy smile hardly
as Black Dahlia lying down blindly
put the haze into tears
that burst and gulp my face into fears
fearing myself that i am not myself
not that I am not in decay
but that I am going through the process
to what I may

ahem...capitalism

Through the flow with the same rhythm
Neglecting that your soul is in mayhem
Connecting yourself with the same tandem
Until you are no longer seen,
Drown in a culminating salem.

(for a system called capitalism...)

-december 12th 2006, in a suck capitalist-large communication company building with its money-craving seminar-

paris hilton

...is not a guilty pleasure. nor are britney, agnes, lindsay, as such. the real guilty pleasure right now should be Bunga Citra Lestari dengan Sunny-nya.
Aduh, gimana ya...video klip nya segar sekali, the most matching video clip of the year deh. huahaha. Matching sama lagunya. kan lagunya sok-sok Bic Runga gitu, breezy, seaakan ada desiran angin australia nya (kalo Bunga, mungkin angin puncak). Video klip nya Bunga pas banget gak seh warnanya, deep glossy purple (love the big couch!), biru muda, mint green, trus ada berbagai buah-buahan. Trus, i feel more guilty...saat gw perhatiin, teknik nyanyinya juga lumayan susah. (iya nggak sih???). the only norak element of the song should be the title. haduh...Sunny...halah. aniwey,

mati deh gw.

from the jakarta height

He opened the door on the Jakarta Height

And he put the lights dimly
Then the icon from his metallic apple PC turned on
And he put jazzy tunes on the player shone by the city lights
And he sang along,
when the third disc played some slow songs.
then he took a white cigarette,
the first one in that day, he said
and he wrote on
and he sang along

and she stunned, dissolved.
--what a perfect night—

...

even the slightest dream on my grasp i can't hold it in my warm hands.
even the lights never even shine the damp.
mine, everything sinister.
drop me black.
into my own mind.
replying all the events this year.
why I deserved some and not deserved more than.

*on the lowest point of my life*
Dec 10th 2006

dashing dream

Seeing dreams dashing away
Not easy to say come what may
Since the fortitude are not to convey
And how I abhor those with different say

And I’ll be here to stay
On this year Christmas day
Until come the next remedy May
Fly on the compastela as I may

a.m./p.m.

9 p.m. I missed Oprah hearted fully. I saw a night breaking news which showed Oprah doing speech on the going to be opened Martin Luther King Memorial Center. Bush also baptized the place, to gain some of his popularity back after the mid election, perhaps.

8 a.m. An ordinary guy clapped his hands twice while squatting fastly, moved towards KOMDAK bridge. In a flick of fingers, those tired eyes and cramped hands cleaned over the well-arranged cheap stuff. Rp.5.000,00 belt, glasses, pirated DVD’s, to the five star-marked slippers. The hands’ owners were not filthy in fashion or in a dependent mood that you’ll see on beggars. They looked like old retired fathers and mothers, with well-worn shirt and cotton pants, with nice belt and glasses. Trying to bring more bread home. The ordinary guy clapping was their sign to rushly pack up their product, or else, the navy blue uniformed people will notch them down.

11. a.m. A first world country expatriate yelled to his PR, that he won’t come to the Idul Fitri party, and told her to call him just at the time she needed him to give a speech.

4.15. p.m. Worried over my reproduction organ’s safety. For the first time, I sat on a Mayasari Bakti carpeted machine beside the driver. I promise I won’t get my organ heated by anymore. I remembered my mom’s myth: no ojek hiking, it’ll dry my ovaries up. Of course, I’ll check google.

11.30 a.m. I loved my batik skirt. It went perfectly with the luncheon

6 p.m. “I fell for nice guys,” that’s what Miranda said on a sleepover two weeks ago. And I agree now. Nice, amiable guys.

a catalyst

A catalyst is someone who is touching your most sensitive
The person heralding a non-significant beautiful manner
Pressing your alarm, burgeoning your production
Of imaginations, words,
Poems, stories,
Tears, metaphors,
Associations,
Future,
features
Giving facts to serendipities,
Befriend the competitors,
Praise the competitors,
Automatic well-mannerism,
Sad hoping flirtatious smile,
Canny soften voice
The sweetest masochism
Without realizing
It’s you who empower yourself
And the person is just a catalyst.

1940

The red car with 19 cap is a public transportation for Kampung Rambutan to Depok route. The othr one, 40, is a brown-orange painted mini van serving the Kampung Rambutan to Pasar Rebo route. Both had been a prudential arena witnessing my fragility.

Fragility would mean a situation when an illuminating haze a remedy no more for reality. A phrase that breaks the hoping wall. Makes each dreg of reality bites you back. It ricochets. Letting the drips translate a real ambition that has been buried in a manner. From calm to calamities.

The process, quelling a warm water to flow, is the hardest one, since it takes at least two hours to get in to my destination. Two hours halting me from a liberating squall like what a baby does. That is the time when I’m surrounded with people whose face I will suspected. Each time one comes and takes a seat, I will tighten my purse. Pungent smell of people who just come back from a market, with wet vegetables and fish smell on their shirt. Shirt on their black black skin from the swelting sun and rare scrubbing. People with tired eyes. Eyes that glimmer their family, and perhaps, their several wives. I believe, they were happy on their wedding day, though. Now, it’s all the art of surviving for them, not an art of sufficing. On November, last year, this type of people was with me in 19 mikrolet. This October, they are with me in the 40. With me carrying my biggest melancholy of the year.

On its high speed way, I planned systematically things to be shared with a friend on the day after. Point per point analysis. I would spell out the bare truth. However, when for hours later I found myself doing my usual method; an elusive self healing, I am convinced, that is why I don’t like a downfall. It is because, practically, it is impossible to find a significant other half a t that time. Then, the lowest point will be a never ending cycle, giving a domino effect that I see won’t be good if I am not who I am now. It might be the lowest point, and without me.

P.S: despite the late night mysterious shootings these months, thank you for the 1940 people who didn’t kill, rape, or rob me (yet) although I’m a frequent midnight rider that should be easy to be watched and anticipated as a target.

blessing on the periphery

November 2005 was the lull line that dropping each endeavor to flirt. However, it doesn’t affect me that much. All of the non-esthatic experience was not a problem. I enjoyed my monday listening to Jack Johnson , Zach Gill and his Animal Liberation Orchestra singing this song:

I come over early in the morning
I'm like a heat wave without warning
And when I touch you my heart begins to flutter
You're smooth and creamy like peanut butter
Girl, I wanna lay you down
I'm gonna flood you like a love river
Ah baby, the postman is about to deliver
I'll cook you up some dinner, a little pasta
Listen to some music, a little rasta
So turn out the lights, bring out the candles
Wrap your arms around my love handles
They say that passion may not always endure
But this feeling that I have for you is burning up my world

Usually, I don’t put someone else’s lyrics on my blog. But I can’t resist this one. So good when you sang it, babe :)

esta llueva en las ramblas

The opera that once stood Maria Callas, the lover of Onassis, was in front of us. The gleam light from its front doors reflected on my opera mousse cake glass. It had a perfect combination of white chocolate on its top and thick bitter dark chocolate at the bottom. Surrounded by ancient posters of Aida as such, a diminutive servant came over, trying some mixture of languages.

It had to be started with, “Ni hao?”, since all tourism cellars in Barcelona have always thought that all Asians must be Chinese.

Then, he turned into, “Good night,”

In the end, “Te gusta Barcelona?”

“Si, a mi me gusto mucho,” I replied. Then, a gush of Spanish sentences spelled out unthrottledly from his beatific face. He looked like James Bond’s rival stereotype, only with nicer, sincere gesture, since he was a servant. For this nice behavior, he got some largesse from us, the poor ‘backpackers’.

After that, we strolled over. On the left and the right of the street, which name derived from an African word, stood up stalls of tapas and bodillas, incessantly followed by some show girl stalls, something unaberrant. The rain was still dripping on the starting to be closed stores except for some marquees. The marquees were some ancient buildings with a narrow street in between them. From the grayish building ornated with gargoyles, girls with mini skirt, stocking, and boots passed by in that glacial night, offering some warmth to male passer-byes. Las mujeres vigorosas. Ay, nosotros tambien.

It was the betwitxt Saturday-Sunday night, around 12 p.m, not the latest night for Jakartan girls, but late enough for this southern region of Spain. Then, we went back to our room, switched the light on, and the American boys suddenly slapped the doors, since we had woken them up at late night. I didn’t know whether it’s the combination of anti- orient behavior and disturbed feeling of mama boys, or just the last one.

touching the simulacra

While I am writing for pleasure, I don’t even know or feel the true torrential sadness that actually happens. The failure of conferences in Oslo and Madrid that made Lebanon bombarded of course is not a slump. Systematically drawn from embedded hatred, it is now not only in between the two countries, but between personal identities, spiritualities. When the velocity of identification spread, we will easily fall for either, since in accepting stereotype or slogan people doesn’t need to delve for more. Musthafa A Rahman stated two rivalries in the recent conflict:

*US, Israel, and Arabian countries pro to Arab Peace Initiative in 2002, like Mesir, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and Jordania (better known as non-rouge countries for US, but well, recent terrorists even came from Mesir and Kuwait. I guess label doesn’t show the truth then)

*New power groups that see there is no place for Israel in the middle east (mention a few: Hezbollah (remind you that they are helped by Ahmadinejad’s Iran), Islamic Jihad, and recently Hamas, inherited the struggle of Yasser Arafat who had a Christian wife.)

The ‘stereotype’ that I’m talking about is believing that the first group always be associated to the conservative Republican US and the second one with Hasan Nasarullah’s “that Hezbollah’s war against Israel represents all ummat (recently defined as Arabs and all Moslem), Hezbollah’s victory will be also all ummat’s victory.”

The question is, should Christian, in other part of the world, never even seen and touched the real blood of the Arabian people should be grouped into the first one. And should all Moslem be put into the second one? Just by grasping the simulacra made by media, and transfer the ‘outside’ hatred into our own neighborhood?

These kind of identifications does not affect our real lives. Should we prioritizing giving sort of money to Palestine instead of helping the uneducated children in the east Indonesia, just because they are (widely known as) Christians? Or should we pray and fanaticize Israel and not praying for Lebannon in our Sunday sermons just because those people are Moslems, not realizing that the same kind of flesh of children are killed?

But, of course, it is our choice to identify ourselves globally, asided the geographical borders and put religion first. Anyhow, the duddest deed of all is meshing the name of our identity as the ‘universal value’ instead of put the real ‘universal value’, human rights, on its supposed throne. Since Christianity is not a value, neither does Islam. They’re just names, and the same greatness of quality of values inside those names, I believe, is not something uncanny for those who respect.

carrot cake

Carrot cake wasn’t as strange as what I had imagined since nurtured by Bobo comic strips. The one I got, It was coated with melted white sugar (like the one you have in Dunkin Donuts) and the meat was really stuffy with fat, soft grind, and chopped carrots. Talked about the first round with a feminism topic that would ban women above 45 to have assisted pregnancy (hmm…how old was Sarah Jessica Parker when she got pregnant then?). I had this chauvinist sexist Berlin dumb dark blond guys from Berlin, who were keep on laughing during the round. Just imagine, if an existentialist feminist from the department (you name it, mbak Gadis, whoever) was there, I was sure, her heels will chop off the guys’ luscious lips. I am not a feminist, though. But, de jure-ly, I beat them, however. After that, the round with two yuppies slash junkies from Los Angeles. The big guy, who associated the last episode of Star Wars with proponent’s proposal about Japan in the Security Council, but without veto. Useless and Lame. Loved him. And after the round, two Hong Kong girls said that Hu Jintao didn’t allow his people to access any international news, however, these girls could grab it by deceiving the intel. Hmm.I felt better in my geographical and institutional position where I am in. Free information, domesticated guys who will not dare to laugh on feminism issues, women who choose to be domesticated. Unexpectedly yummy, just like a carrot cake.

-University College Dublin, Thursday, December 31st 2005-

philosopher and cosmologist

Philosophers use their assumptions and knotting the social juices. Scientists go through formulas in their had and assume. And they arrive at the same conclusion. Perhaps we have told about the conclusion. Some people choose to believe it, and fight for it in the name of it. Some others checked it, because the conclusion cannot be referenced.

social activists and the cosmologist

The activists will cure the world straightforwardly and in a periodic time of history with a certain paradigm. And when one paradigm is changed with another, their function will also be reversed. And we know that paradigm has always changed during the history. Scientists will build fragment to fragment to valuable rope connected the earth with the cause, endlessly, but not straightforwardly.

on the earth or in the universe

Einstein said that a mass is moved through the rail of time and place. When Newton thought that it is because of gravitation, Einstein brought it into a more succumbed level. 

Why I said so? Because in the track of time and place, you cannot escape, and you as a mass not being pulled up by a secular sensed energy called gravitation. Instead, you are destined to be there. In a rail of time and place made for you. The question still, what made it, who made it, or how it was made. 



Then Hawking come to say that the rail can be made endlessly and can’t be cut off from its spur because of an extremely big concentrated mass. When a big mass of a star is concentrated, like a bullet bulk in your stirred milk, all particles around it will circle around it, and nothing can escape. Including the speed of lights, and the light itself. It is like the planets moving around the sun. It is destined. 

Then, Hawking called it black hole. Black, just like the life itself, you can’t escape being stirred.

But then, Hawking followed up his theory and came with this concept, the Hawking radiation. It said that some energy will escape and stretch the time and place around them to be relative and not vanished, even if the concentrated star starts to lose itself and vapor with the clinging energy around it. This energy on the tip of the circling movement is the Hawking radiation. 

The concept is almost the same with Einstein’s relativity. That is when you are pushed into the speed of light, the time will be relative. 

It also resembles the law of evolution I think. Ones who push to the tip of assumptions and routine will survive.

melt

And excitements melt spotlessly into the used-brownish sugar in the bottom of a coffee cup. I side them coyly with a spoon, but I know I will not sip it into my mouth. That’s how it goes with my so called ‘network’ numbers on my phone. Droning. You know, the sound of the keypad is droning, monotonous. Goes along through four hundred something numbers. If I could slosh them off, then how many numbers left, that’s the question. Tonight, none. When I’m longing for a cup of coffee and a conversation, I must be satisfied enough with mister Cole’s stardust, entomb my utopic mood. Let it away just like a smitting smoke from an ended cigarette. Melt. What a murky present I get tonight. Don’t remind me that I am not good at making and maintaining a network. I don’t care about my friends’ birth date, that’s the first. And I just can’t get myself connected. But, how could you forget a conversation, doesn’t it marked redder than any anniversary? Most people don’t, I figured. So, my friend is just a flourescent-lit monitor for tonight. And maybe for ever. And I’m not complaining, to anyone

my agenda stopped on April 20 something, the same day I championed, lived someone else's wish, then breath for the breathless days. Pop the eyes with winded bones craving on pages, stared at my unpredictable yet to come. I am just a girl on a jumping board by the swimming pool. With the water and the sky share the same color, black yet starry.

Huhu

If could scream, I would. But, this place is a computer rental stuffed with teenagers giggling over a handsome face on the friendster. Damn! All I do is just snapping my hair back, sigh, and retype. I have spent over two hours, typing, and SAVING in my document each every sentence. Suddenly, the electricity was off, for a second. No problem with the computer, anyhow, when I deliberately open the s*** my document, all of the word files are gone. And the mas mas, happily, with a wide smile just says, “wah mbak, kalo disimpen di komputer pasti ilang tiap kali komputer mati,” and he's just like going away like flying, like he’s weighless. How come? How come? There're no signs sticked at least in front of the costumer’s eyes about that? Anyway, literally, I cry. And retype for the next two hours. And hold my breath on my floppy disc.
I am pretty thoughtful, I guess. Furiousless. huhu.

I wanna know what he does in the weekends. I wanna know where did he buy his impulsing perfume, he would only has two choices of malls near the habitation. Listening to the songs he chose made me strolling down the nerve of my normal pricking day with the latest Do You Want to by Franz Ferdinand. I cooled down the volume when the disc started with a woman breathless punctuated silky sigh with melodious bass like you find in Shakira’s. That was not jazz. I thought. Nearly to the end, it matched my New Agey essay and the windy night when I sat to my computer.

I wanna know what he did with the wide canvas he put on the black wooden floor. I bonded all the pieces. Slow meditating songs. Muy abirrido. Empty place just covered with Floresian on its sofa and Kalimantanese table cloth. His empty blurry misleading eyes. With the F1 special editions of Lucky Strike, replacing the white cigarettes. His bread near the old backpacker backpack before his three o’clock lunch. His humble in every fashion. His up soft wrinkles at the end of his eyes. His upper lip, which is thinner than its fellow. His paleness.

I wanna know.

Just.

Two…Three scenarios

Doesn’t know

Didn’t mean to
Then stay flat
As ruined as before
Prepare for joker face

Know

Correct translation
Undeceiving nature
Then say still have smart psyche
Do have a sense of humor

Or worst

There
Is
Step below the highest degree
Be the first one can’t it be
But it
Is
There

Second most delight, but sun will wake
Touches and stings
Makes feel only the first and third can do.

I’m scared tensely.

(made seven months ago, I've loosened my tense, yet haven't figured out)

NYMagz. Love it. Hate it.

Swarming in between manic weeks of an undone accomplishment. Smiling after a wedding in a black bricked church, with black eyed guests. Worrying my short-term memory lost. It’s like this, I was going to put some water last night and brush my teeth, on 3 a.m, after typing over the NYMagz analysis, with Laclau and Mouffe infamous theory. When I walked to put the glass, turned out to be the Tupperware had been filled. Full. By who? Creepy. On early dawn, me alone breathing consciously, was it my second ego? Help me. Not. Sisie said it’s because I’m too much preoccupied. Then, I forgot the simples.

On the afternoon, before the eerie thing happened. Had a dream that I got married. It feels soooo good. Electrified me to open my eyes, made a big pointed smile, showed my teeth to my blanket and said, “I’m married!” (I guess it’s because the previous conversation with the anti commitment guy, who kept on saying that marriage is just like going out with a permission from the society.). Took only a click to wash up and do my essay. See, marriage works! At least the ceremonial party. *he he*

A Weird Interview

You need the money. But you pray pray, please, don’t call me up for the interview in that lifestyle magazine (for mum and baby). On a sunny day in Monday, after canceling my Spanish class. I sold myself to a big magazine corporation in the city, the biggest rival of the one I attended as an intern.

As usual, girls with matching necklaces and fancy skirts. Ethnic, chic, rhythmic, you name it. Oh…uu…they allow the employee to wear jeans. Cool. Liberal. And the interviewer was just a lovely motherly figure, with light peach lipstick on her fair skin. Matching her peach wardrobe and orange necklace balls.

(an informal interview)

Interviewer: “Your CV is astonishing”

Interviewee: “Thanks”

Interviewer: “But, I guess you don’t fit with this magazine. I’m afraid it’ll bore you. You know, interviewing mothers, the hospital care people, breast feeding nutrition, and stuff. While you’re a young, fancy woman.”

Interviewee: “Well, I guess I can learn new things from that. Meet new people, you know, say… I will be a mother….someday…(flinching her eyes, shaky voice, sell sell yourself)”

Interviewer: “I really like you, though. I will recommend you to the lifestyle magazine for teenagers. You can mingle perfectly with the people there, I see.”

Interviewee: *oh, she just doesn’t know. The previous teenage magazine editor said that I’m too serious for their field* “Ohkay, I’d be delighted.”

And the interviewer handed the interviewee her magazine, how to keep your house well. (order it into a name of a magazine). How ironic.

Mark Ruffallo, you can do better than assisting Jennifer Anniston in Rumor Has It. Such stringy, cheap, sinetronish movie.

Orang-orang yang sering berpikir

Orang-orang yang sering berpikir
adalah mereka yang paling sering menangis dalam hati
melayang di atas batas gelap perkira
jejaki ratusan kata, dan mengata
tak ada
sang pencipta di mana
karena bagi mereka adalah indera yang punya nyana
bukan rasa, kira, bukan hati
menyentuh dunia, tak cukup dengan hati
mereka menangis, menyentuh gelap jagat
di mana, mana tak ada siapa siapa
dipincingi dari bawah dari mereka yang menikmati sinar
sinar satu arah dari matahari
yang dikira abadi
dan aku yakin, Pramoedya Ananta pasti sering menangis.
dulu.

7 Mei 2006, few days after the departure

May is when the sun would string, makes the mikroleters stare in envy to those in the air-conned box. May this year is when the sun greys, pouring down velvetish ash from Merapi. Occasional rains that wash away thick black bulk from old metrominis, which makes me yell, eat your own dirt, polluters!
By the way, I hate May. In spite of the Tauruses, May puts hearts on the brink of savoir good byes, eternally, unpredictably. Different with December, when you part, partly, and be excited. Manner yourself better, suffocate your body with juices, face with blushes. Since you'll meet again in the midst of january. On May, you're not sure, whether he will walk on La Ramblas on July, hike on Andalucia silent mountains, or on the antique Galicia, Oviedo where Fernando Alonso was born.
and whether I will be where.

me and anas.anas and me.

We have a strange relationship. an undefinable friendship. we're opposites, a drastic ones. we will yell at each other (softly, in manner, the keep-on-beautiful-although-bitchy-manner) about anything. Anas believes in my superstition blabs, I believe in her strategies. Although I hate her to have the strategy and she doesn't like my superstition. The similarity is only that nobody will be able to stay with us for a long time *hear hear! the readers say*. We're such assholes. and we are keep on meeting each other since 15 years ago.


By the way, happy birthday, honey, Ananstasia Hariztin, April 23rd 2005 turned 22.

David Gale said, “At one point of our life, we let the desire to take control upon our reality. Thus, you keep your dream alive. And it is called obsession.”

I have been trying real hard to be obsessed. In fact, I was obsessed about achievements, traveling, friends, books, my ass, men, sex, and writings. Now, I am unthreading the singular nervous system in my head. Do all of the obsessions connected to my heart? I am afraid only the latest one does.

I am enjoying…


Singaporean The Melting of the Ice Cream Girl, The Teenage Textbook
How sweet it is of Adrian Tan:
“For Angel, who although having beauty, charm, and intelligence, still insists on choosing me as her boyfriend. I’m yours for life,” he wrote.

Enjoying being a chief of a penniless provincial selection for the high schoolers
Really like their spirited eyes to be noticed

Enjoying Flori’s Duck King treat with dim sums.
Chunky, less oil food is always good.

Enjoying making friends with my old friend with her new boyfriend and boring friends of the boyfriend, since I love her the most.

Enjoying my new purplish candylike necklace, which I bought with a bad bargain in terminal Blok M at seven o’clock in the morning

Enjoying the nutrition at my home, bunch of oranges, pears, and healthy, non-sugared guava juice

After I enjoyed cleansweep debates against teams who are said to be “good”
And, of course, I am enjoying
The trophy J

For someone who is apparently enjoying my creation,
DON’T

Don’t do the imminent
I beg you not touching my peeled egg neck
I do not need your intellect carcass fixing my schedule
Enough of your bulb-lighting inspiration
Touch me softly on the edge of my mind’s eye
I need you to be softly colored,
Like David Mitchell’s Number Nine Dream cover,
Light
Flying
Smokey
Tingle
pastel
Unseen
I have fun with my Hanson’s Underneath,
My lovely agenda, and Shakira’s songs inside my head
Let me do the creation around me
With you inside it
I’ll touch
I plot he story
Where we’re going to go
Where I wanna kiss

You don’t need to do anything
And, like Sergio Mendez said,
Baby, don’t fall in love with me.
Please, baby,
Don’t.

I am getting old
When Quadrophilia was turned on
And Jim took a bath with his balls in between the soapy hot water, I heard the juniors, the dj junior, the commercial star junior, and the others shouting.
When the shoot was about Jim and his room with naked twiggy women in between his emo heroes, the juniors were woo-ing.
I am getting old in the sense of I am not shy no longer in frenzying my idols.
Instead of covering it with shy smiles and insensible jokes, I didn’t do it at all.
I am afraid of pulsivate my firstly-captured- senses
I am not tired, I just think that I have known those things, I’ve had the age
When my brain remains, yet, I’ve not done all I’ve known

F.C.U.K

find the blood in my head
and shed it
cease the satan so it can work
and wreck
use the remained gold
and suck it
keep me empty
do me as you want
until i'm back again

La playa. Barcelonetta.
water that separates the north and the south.

Photo by Ov

Saing tak Perlu

Kami akan bertengkar
tentang siapa paling apa
Kudijatuhi air terjun
segar
tapi sihir niagra
mengharuskan mata memeta kristal titik air
Ia dengan tetesan darah hitam
menggelembungi nadi
menyerta hari tiada henti
kami akan bertengkar
tentang siapa paling apa
tapi
kulontar akan asa menenangkan
dia semata agar aku tahu
dia paling apa

Assuredness and Calmness

Four women with the same interest
Sat on a box, heading north and south
Their man sat heading to the north
one foot in front of
Women with the similar direction as the man were calm.
The others emitted a fully highly streoed volume
The one, thogh stringy, felt secure and did not need to work hard now
since assuredly they will ride together on Australian winter
Still, some seconds
glimpsed over
just to check him
who sat with the next them

and it wasn't just one pair
it's
four women with the same interest

Men and Loneliness

Men (meaning: guys) like loneliness a lot
Men like hymns
They like silent enhancing ambiance
Men like the emptiness of the world
Over Consciously
Salience so they can contemplate deeply
and realize
nothing awaits them before eyes
because women will always agree
Kept on the black box happily
with their neck bends and ogles the dust and keep on smiling
while he can proceed
enjoying the loneliness
into the deep night
and not even cry

attended a talkshow, with Rp.5.000,00 entrance, which was so expensive for FIB seminars, and got these words from Rudy Soedjarwo:


"When you feel critics are everywhere and they're getting harder, it means you're on top. You need to be on the toppest position to be criticized heartily."

digest, people. Digest.

My recent blabs in "about me" in Friendster:

About Me:mahasiswa yang sedang bekutat mencari korpus spiritualitas di New York demi skripsi yang bab satu aja belum kelar, di saat teman-temannya sudah yakin dengan kajian jazz, homosexuality, drama anti feminis, dan cinta-nya Toni Morisson.

Recently tune in to Janji Joni soundtrack (all of them) and Franz Ferdinandas a desperate relieving self-method to find a satisffying enough replacement for SUEDE. ah... and enjoy seeing t.A.T.u new videos. They're goddamn hot, don't you think?Slandering over Che Guevarra posters sold on Kober till Barri Gothic for its so called patriarchal image. Found the truth by watching Motorcycle Diaries.

Why oh Why...they should put a man with cigarette, killer hat, wild mid length hair, and unshaved face EVERYWHERE. while he also had the times when he seems so delicate, subtle, yet robust in heart.no need to be wild looking guys to prove that you're a guy.

humm
just a thought
no serious consideration taken,
please :)

January 20th 2006
Jakarta, my room.

I had to think of what should I wear for this afternoon, for no jeans left in the drawer. All favorites still well-packed in my black suitcase. Decided to wear the purple skirt. It had embroideries of darker purple in flower form, lining from the tip vertically towards the middle of it. And as my skirt wove into the taxi that brought me home and as I slipped off my 7 hours worn black top and changed it into a white loose t-shirt, thought bout things happpend today, with Bella Pollen's Hunting Unicorns by my side. More heartily, all those jazzy from Cosmopolitan FM on this Friday night. I pressed my abstract heart and push my eyelids hardily towards my eyes. Significantly trying to erect some eyedrop. And when the songs even cut my skin and walked steadily with my blood rhymes, I could not even cry.

come on, cry!

What for?

You have no one whose lips can be pressed with your emotion

So?

You must have to be sad

But I'm not

But you want to be sad

Yes. I've been trying. But I can't

Call for some help. You can't cry.

January 14th 2006
on a train from Koln to Hannover


Portrait of STOP and other German novels realized. Full moon swam in between black bluish monochromic sky, with whithe transparent cutton of scrapped clouds. Grey bricked houses, mounted roofs under leafless trees, which branches you can see them dry and brown. Meranggas. Tought accompanied by blond little girl with a pony tail, walkman and bunch of plastics withe chocolate candies and marshmellow in it. I even could smell it from afar, a yuppielike. You know, those strawberry creamed and sugared candies. Missed my lil bro, hadn't bought a plane miniature for him. I considered 10 eiros for an aerlingus miniature was too expensive.

Remembered the guys in the Guest Home. Paul and Matthew, and one Irish exceptional guy, as the house's attendant. Too bad that I'm not an open person for new guys. Seiing couples kissed in Catalunya or Passeig de Gracia station, or good bye hugs in Koln Bonn airport. Felt warm, lustless.

I don't remember the last time I saw hunger for lust looks from people on Jakarta or Depok streets. Probably, if my country just let people release their anthusiasm of love and UI didn't detent couples who kiss un its romantic alleys, Jakarta will be safer from rape. Porns. You name it. Less love. More lust.

In here, your love will just be more restricted. Interracial marriage draft. and you know the other one, the draft which clearly states that woman shouldn't show their hips, etc off.

Less love. More lust. Unsafe. Risih.

everybody, check "The Family Guy" series out! nice recommendation for Pengkabud class or anything to do with English (specially American) literature.

Aerlingus with a technician clearing snowbits on the plane's wings. Feeling anxious of my hadn't been done sociolinguistic essay, I unfolded all the paper in front of me. The Guardian, "Land of the Freeze", I quoted:

Little did we know. we'd already had the tastiest of the reindeer experiences. We stopped, one time, just to exchange disbelief at how amazingly, unexpectedly, bloody cold it was. "Ach, at least you can protect yourself against the cold," said the gnaried one. "How do you protect yourself against the heat?"

correct.

Thought back again, I was carrying two heavy bags, 20 kilos in total i persume on my shoulders. And weavering around Schipol to find gate D12, which all of us self depictly said that it was really near. So, I left the trolleys behind. Dump.
And running. and carrying. and my (physical) heart beating, and it was almost torn apart. thank God, (physical) heart won't be torn apart easily just because the rushing blood.
I had felt the same tension before (physically). In running tests on elementary school, Merpati Putih exercises, climbing high crossing bridges in Jakarta, high impact aerobics...
But the feelings were different. Surrounded with icy atmosphere, I felt I can do it more. no sweats, even no heat. Come to think of it, perhaps, that's just one of the reasons why Indonesian soccer players are not so
you know what i mean.

it's the weather.

a fleeing Schipol. Dec,27.2005.08.00 am.

with snow covering the wings of airplane and the crystal clear ice melting on the window, slides of film in an international airport at dawn emerged. See indians with their modern suits and children in the baby carriages. And Sikh with turban, or the furry booted lady (like the ones Cameron Diaz popularized) and an unshaved man holding her hands. Also the annoying barbie wannabe little girl with top down pink furry coat and boots, yelling she wanna buy a gossip magz in the See Buy Fly.
Funny,huh. All the politics (which have converted into peace war policy), and those which have concerned Medicine Sans Frontiers. They turbinate and pulsate around you. Humans, whose core are love and family. Big politics and war maintain your love to keep on burning in between.
those big bangs...are covering one tiny most prescious philosophy on earth,
love.

and the christmas tree with maroon silver balls, nila ribbons, and reddish lights were standing, letting the walkers interact and see, whether the politics work.

leaving the hectic final tests to a freezing silent oldies country brings myriad of, let's say...things (it's self explanatory), specially, the feeling of nationalism, at last (after the unworking years of PPKn and nation and nationality subjects). How it sucks the mind when you hear the argument of exploitations upon immigrant workers are highly justifiable, and how they laugh a lot upon a japanese guy who propose a legally enforcable minimum wages for all people in a first world country. Somehow, i'm no longer interested in the typical caucasian good looking males anymore. Umm...not. Leave one space for Mr.Eastaugh, a sharp melancholic eyes beholder from the department of English and literature, whom we (Santi and Dhika also participated highly) usually coded as Mas Joni. hehehe.

For a while, you’re still in the dark
Ah yes, sir…
Plus sinked blood stern, culminated acid on the t-junction of my t area
And American Psycho bells reminding me for haven’t found any
And the four-legged man said
“Do you like dark movies?”, and a thrown idea of gothic, Freudian psychoanalysis, Byronic hero, binary opposition, famme fatale, dimsel in distress, Christine of the phantom, interview with the vampires, romanticism hippies grown to yuppies, tilted flowers, bright city bright lights, and grey suits flew

keep maintain me normal, please, I pledged to his eyes.

baby,
Sit on your fatty ass
When you hear the names mentioned
And you don’t wanna peep even through the glass
since you don’t want the drop catches attention

so honey,
Sit on your fatty ass
With the cards play seems may drag your direction
From your farfetched dream being in their class
And the cannon doesn’t even know the healing caption

And dear,
Sit on your fatty ass
Press your knees to your bourbon
Sip the distilled whiskey to your mind carcass
When he disturbs your ‘Janie’s Got A Gun’
And how your absent hearted spills makes him crushed

sometimes, breaking is just a real right thing to be happened. Never imagined that I long for it now.

I AM a kid of third world country

When unfortunes strike my life, two options lay, to blame myself or my misfortune being in this country.

One dry sunny morning with polluted particles dusked from big tires. Don’t blame me when I selfishly choose air conditioner as the best invention besides electricity. Waiting for air conditioned bus is not for those who can’t stand. It needs a half to three quarter hour. Getting the bus, stood on the frontiest array of standing people, with nothing to grip. Ass on someone’s something, and literally, you needed to cover your breasts to avoid a contact with walking conductor collecting 5,500 rupiahs. And while the feet were tensed in balancing the result of sudden breaks, the same feet had to hang on for one and a half hour in a horrible traffic jam. Okay with all the conditions, meaning that yes, it is acceptable to stand in a public transportation. But, the idea of you could do nothing for one and a half hour is just so sad.

I kept on agreeing Amartya Sen on his thought that poverty happen because of limited chances. Including the chance to do something in one and a half hour, I may add. My pray and slander were answered. Getting off from the bus, took the other final one, and, vale… empty seats, functioned well air conditioner with slight smell of oranged scented cheap car fresherners, and songs…do that to me one more time, one is never enough for a man like you…

And the excitement of last night appeared. The excitement which could successfully erased my sadomasochist thoughts when I saw Kuch Kuch Hota He (spelling correction, anyone?) at that afternoon. I could no longer parallelize my experience with any kind of love stories.

It is now
Unmeaningful.
And, the dawn boy, do that to me one more time…
Because one is never enough for a man like you, not him.

A consolation for the lost

This is my latest weekend after you said good luck. Yes, only that, without sweeteners like you used to pour. Honda city. The hotel. The lovers of the Artic Circle. Teater Utan Kayu. Stinky man. A couple. A hundred thousand rupiahs for a bowl of tasteless, big sized noodle. Late conversation. With someone resembles you. Late awake. Made Nick Long and Redwan wait for long. Nick said Daniel Redcliffe was joining England selection for WUDC. Redcliffe was a debater. Taksi Putra. 52. two hours. Cipinang Jaya. Supermarket Divine. Conversation. The eccentric lecturer’s home. Ten o’clock. Convenient store. Pringles. Smax. Batteries. Two bottles of Aqua. A man and two cartons of cigarettes. Kosti. Happy Saturday night wish for the taxi driver. Loosening chat with Miranda. Muhammad was the latest prophet. The message completed. McDonald’s delivery. Fillet o fish. The daily show. Adjudicate. Ridiculous photo session with Donny. Break night party. Someone else’s RX.
Went home, and he said, “ You’re rarely be on a motorcycle, aren’t you?”
“I was used to. But now, no more,” I replied.
A photographer, a film maker, a smoker, on the same religion and ethnicity, a silent boy, boy… it’s so safe?

Kalau kau ingin membuat segalanya tak bermakna
cungkilah tiap detail warna yang ada
Ceritakan setiap saat di kala kau bisa
Sebanyak orang yang kausuka
Hingga kepingan habis, kosong, dan menganga
dan kau akan mengiya
cerita-cerita itu bukan apa-apa
bagi dirinya, bagi mereka, bagi dunia
bagi dirimu

sehingga kau dapat melapisinya dengan kalkir
dan membuatnya rabun, jauh, tidak berwarna, penuh miasma
walaupun sebenarnya
ada.

Crack
Brag
Slack
what I hate when my friends just fall in love?
They do not share moments with you again
Specially the guys.
Or, I hate this, because I will rethink, are we really friends? Or I just coincidently meet them and shares things.
Without particular care for each other.
And, this forces me also to believe in the concept that love doesn’t take, but give
Only, which I didn’t buy before.
Make me rethink again, why love should be prioritized over some kiddy games and laughter sessions?
I just don’t get it.

Special, for: the long haired pianist and the bald manager!
Wake up guys, smell the coffee!!!

two more weeks, and, "What's the jog, bro?"

...waiting for Harry James' Manhattan Serenade faded away from my head...

tale taled heart

somehow the lines written all over in biography books turned out reality last day when I said to myself I won't let anyone hurt myself anymore. Hopefully my self-defense turns bolder now. Let's see...

waking in early morning on Sunday, went to Fasilkom to debate, and fascinatingly at eight o'clock at night, debates had soothed me. Weird, but true. Went back home, helped my mom doing the laundries until 1.30 in the morning, set the alarm, had a good night sleep and dreamt shopped over Plaza Indonesia. woke up at 7.00 and had a phonecall to go to university administration center, it's about letters, as usual. And a comunicative class with Moncho, "No es bueno tener un solo hijo, crees? o la madre trabaja siempre mas que el padre, crees?" "Creo que si por las preguntas...," I said. Felt thankful to Bobo, because the Fernando Alonso article helped me a lot in Moncho's task in the class: imagining un persona latino. Think that Alonso es perfecto suficiente.

And I've haven't been hurt since el sabado. So far...

"So why don't UNSC gives the same preassure to India, Pakistan, and others concerning their nuclear power instead on Ahmadinejad's country only?"

"Well, huney, India and Pakistan didn't sign NPT. That is why."

should I know? Unfortunately, on this wrong path I chose and tangled myself with I have to know things I don't want to know.

two cheering up bengbengs for the day after

complicated, complicated, what is so complicated for you?
the complicated is when I saw my friend shouting at night on the parking lot
underneath full mooned sky, which ray didn't even shine because of the rainy afternoon
shouted out loud until I was barely able to differenciate my voice with hers.
for the multitude was very high and you had never saw her like that before, I guarantee.
for blaming her, us, women.women the ones who flirted you. and you broke broke and died and defended
and oiling her tiny eyes with redden water that couldn't come out.
For all ungentle men, fuck em all goes for them amen, and she mirrored at me.
and we both said,

"This is a one fine day, sista."
...yes, and the powerful still young Whitney Houston voice from " the Bodyguard" came streoudly, continued by Boyz II Men and Mariah Carey's "One Sweet Day" and so on...

And there were we. girls.faded moonlight.empty parking lot. a stereo. and motown classics.

For the subordinates

The blaze of red stringy lights stroke
Stabbing, degrading
Ignoring slightly when another species interrupted
The bold stringent laser dissolved into miasma
Moving everything slightly
Making optical illusion
Flowing the border of each entity
Melting the border lines
And the silver rainbow hot fluid in each tube pouring each other
Finally they all looked the same
Somewhat rainbow paddlepop ice cream with more oily colors

A threat.

Burn burn
Love run run
Fortnight go twinkling stars
Slip the warmth through the fingers
Then burn
At least the black limp stays
Sprinkled towards the magnetic clouds
To shower thousand days with its vapor
Poisoning, saturating through skin pores
Craving shadows below the eyes
Disorienting.

And keep your silent decay. Let me cry.

I hate you, hey waterboy
For floating relaxed on the sea
For every slide of a movie you’ve seen
After a full midnight seeing projected moving picture on the white wall
Of a house near cannabis plantation

Just tell me the comparison and benefit analysis
Between floating and enjoying.

picture from www.googbix.com

Trash. We are in.

As a week full, people in Germany saw fire balls eclipting their sky. Although many people assumed that they were UFOs, NASA stated in its website that they were not. The fire balls were said to unknown group of meteors, since earth is orbiting through trashes of the galaxy.
Interesting. Trashes in bigger trashes.

Parents. Parents. Conservative Parents.

My friend started smoking a month ago. She brought a pack of menthol cigarettes home. Sure, she kept it in her bag. Not long after that, when she was going to go out and bring her cigarettes, she found that the pack was no longer there.
There were only her and her parents living at that house. Her parents took it? Maybe. But, she was not confronted.

Me. I bought a S$5 paperback book of the feminist, Anais Nin, “Artist and Models”. Thanks to Zineng for the recommendation. Then, when I was about just finished the first short story, the little pink covered book with naked woman sculpture on it gone. Disappear. Mysteriously. Ya, the sexual description was inevitably detailed. Maybe it worries people around me.
But I was not confronted.

Two days ago, Astrid, my other friend, asked, “How come parents in Indonesia considered sex education as a taboo thing to be discussed at homes?”
Hmm… I was beginning to think,
“That’s normal,” I said.

Darth Vedder II

Look…
…in the middle of nineties, Dr. Azahari was known to start contemplating religious matters. At the same time, his wife was stroke by cancer on her throat after having their second baby. Then, his wife could no more produce sound, thus she couldn’t lecture anymore at the Universitas Teknologi Malaysia. Strongly believed that this grand soul suffering became the trigger of Azahari’s changing trait.
…Anakin Skywalker was torn down after seeing in his dream that Padme’s life is no long to be taken. Then, this triggered him to become Darth Vedder since he knew from his dream that he would suffer a lot if his newlywed wife died. After the dark hazing, he killed innocent people. Many.

How much I hate to see deeper. Since, afterwards, there will always be Byronic heroes as the result. Pity, romantic thoughts may go to the killers.

the Farthest Logic is Imagination

picture: mushalla FIB UI at sunset, by Ov



What if…
My mom hadn’t marry my father?
Or at least just’d stayed with her own faith.
Probably I would be fasting for one month and not being there in Saturday night.
Read Toni Morisson’s Love with a blue cyan big cup of cappuccino and one tiny nutella biscuit.
With my jeans soaked for the heavy rain, which made me took Rp. 70.000,00 for taxi.
And, gosh, I had to go there for a pee since I forgot to bring my room’s key. So dumb. More, I had to wait for my friends to come over.

What if…
My mom had not been that subordinate than my father?
Probably I would be heading for my grandmother’s house, far away in Central Java.
Not sacrificing my afternoon with the pervert society (again!)
With poetic realist novel in my hand and desperate jazzy sound on the stereo, which damn, I liked it a lot!
“…You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh, na na na na na na na na… as time goes by…”
(actually, there wasn’t na na na na. Just forget the lyrics.)

and he’s heading to the east, and she’s to the west, little bit southy. She just couldn’t relax, for the stretch. The stretch that pulled each centimeter of her brain tissue to wander, to connect. But, it extremely faded the chance to
to what? To see? To smell? To feel?
She could only imagine.

What if…
The sexy girl, Dinda had not been the Public Officer for Culturaholic?

I didn’t get along with Taufik, who were Dinda’s General Secretary. Thus, it was him who connected me to Dinda?

I didn’t have much chits chats with this sassy lady, Sisie?

I didn’t join a pervert society and being introduced to Abi, by Disty?

I would had been drown into this purplish red covered little novel, and a book of the history of sense.
And she will would had injected each word she read to intensify the stretch.

For they were the guys I met in serendipity, that Saturday night, which usually people had left kosts for their homes, specially near Idul Fitri.
and they loosened the stretch.

Isn’t it funny, the way you choose whose people you are connected with right now, will affect your future. In a specific, tangible way. Probably, when you’re having a relationship with someone, you don’t know that it might cause a super practical impact for your future kids.
The way you choose someone to talk to, determine an act in your life, whether you’ll be delighted or not in your sour day. (just an obsessive thought of anticipation)

anyhow, Happy Idul Fitri for all of you... All the blessing with us

from www.kompas.com

from xl1solutions.com

Jame, this lady that you mean????!!!!
humm..hummm...

aku punya teman.
nama bekennya ada ranum-ranumnya gitu, deh.
trus belakangnya bee-bo, hehehe... pasti tau dong. (lokal, buat sastra Inggris UI). Tapi, ini ga ada hubungannya, sih.

Point is, I wanna be ripe.
In experience, in focus in life.
I think, it is so easy to find inspiring, ripe people.
When you see the lecturers in the department,
when I see them,
I know, I stll have lots to dig in in this world.

Ov, come on, Consolate yourself!

Feeling exhausted, it is official, Midtest is not all around anymore, but

* I lost my lovely agenda, which its each page I made on my own! plus... all notes about my final essay is all there. So, please... if you found a colorful agenda with the cover "Samuel Barber's Piano Concerto" at front and "Classic meets Cuba at the back", It belongs to me.

* Applying for a visa is not as easy as I imagined, plus... the bird flu issue plus Bali bombing II, make it harder. (lucky damn all first world citizen, for your accessibleness for visa on arrival).

* The thought of what I read in Sejarah Kebudayaan Indonesia materials for midtest is just too much to endure. Names of Buddha's hand gestures, their meanings, years and years passed by Pithecanthropus erectus, meganthropus, and fellows. Despite the real questions in midtest, which appeared to be EXACTLY THE SAME AS LAST YEAR'S.

*I couldn't speak fluently on basic conversation in Spanish! Moncho must had been dying to send me again to Bahasa Spanyol Sumber. I am so not typical of student in Bahasa Spanyol Sumber Lanjutan. Well, the typical ? ya, actually, the class is only joined by two legal interested students: me and Indah. Indah did spend her last summer in Spain. So, you can tell... I'm so ashamed of myself. Hope my smiles work.

* I have to search and find corpuses: articles, interviews, anything... for my final essay, about contemporary new age religions in US. can you help? :)

* I really dying without my agenda. It's pretty lovely, so I don't doubt the possibility that someone had seen it fell out of my stupid blue leathered bag and just took it. It consists of: two unique postcards, which I covered with sticky transparent plastic, Rp. 6.000. Plus, one pack of colorful papers in spotlight green, yellow, blue, orange, and pink, Rp. 20.000,00. Plus, a white binder, Rp. 10.000 for the process. Most importantly, my schedule for the next two weeks and my period calendar!

one consolation for tonite: Toni Morisson's "Love"
consolation for weekend: my lovely brother's birthday: Mossa is turning ten. Plus, his concert at Kelapa Gading. Won't miss the show, lil' bro!

Hail to writers. To those who abundantly ornate the ordinary into an extra. Feel lucky, hey, those people whose names are written. Whose forms inspire the senses of right people. Right people, those who will documented these standard thus becomes an embroided stitch in history.

*sigh* you guys, bloggers. Damn lucky those people whose body and soul alter into phrases. Though they might look good, actually the quality is in the tellers. Not in the object.

-a comment, after seeing abundant words of joy, tears, and confusions from my fellow bloggers...err... writers-

a midnite chat

Someone came and slept over at my room, asked, “Whom is you lean on?”, I replied, “God.” Then, unsatisfied question,” Oh, come on, you must have someone whose shoulders you put on when you need. Someone stronger and can cloak your world with breezy and relaxing atmosphere!”

Then, I described this in my head. On a circle plate, there I stand. Between me and other people, there is a ravine . It is God. Full with mixed consciousness, I say, whatever gender it is has a strength to control the balance of wind, thus I can stand steadily.

Afterward, I finished the answer by putting families near to my circle plate.

“And men?”

“I can take them as a complimentary. As a part of me. (Property, is that the word?) Not something haloing my plate.”

“Ah, I’m beginning to trust you…I can picture you doing that.”

“Good then,” said me.

Ode untuk Hati yang Terpatah

Untuk teman-temanku, yang baru mencoba merajut kembali tangganya, walau tangga itu penuh duri.
Aku sangat mengerti.

Seorang pelukis menggambarkan tangga untukmu
Ia membuatnya begitu rapi
begiti tersususn, periodik, teratur, hingga kau terbiasa...
Duniamu pun bagaikan imaji
Kauagungkannya dengan bingkai, kaupajang di ruang paling terang
Bahkan kaupun masuk ke dalamnya.
Lihat,
kamu, dengan senyum bahagia, bangga menantang dunia
Karena kamu punya tangga
yang akan menjagamu dari kejatuhan
akan membisikkan alunan sejuk saat kaumengaduh
yang menginspirasikanmu untuk berbuat yang terbaik
bukan demi nilai
demi dia
Namun,
saat tangga dihapus,
kau seperti lukisan bodoh di sana
semua orang yang menggunjingkanmu
semua yang menikmati ceritamu
semua penggosip di Kansas
Semua teman menceramahimu dengan ajaran POSA , KUKSA, atau Musholla
Bahkan sang pelukis
menganggapmu
bodoh.
Pathethic!
Aku mengerti itu,
bukan salahmu terpana pada lukisanmu sendiri
Menangislah.
Jadilah saksi untuk semua penikmat
bahwa dalam dunia sureal itu,
kaulah yang paling logis.
Saat mereka ingin menarikmu kembali,
hanya peri waktu yang dapat membuat bingkai itu lebih kecil
hingga dapat berpindah tempat.
Tidak lagi mengkotakkimu.
Tapi dapat kaujinjing,
kausimpan,
kaukunci di ruang berdebu,
kaujual,
atau bahkan
kaubuang.

hail to PLN
Ibu Asistia.... we love you so much!!!

-dhika-ovi-pade-melanie-arief-astrid...

-to be continued-

mental breakdown

1. No money to go to WUDC 2006
2. No efficient effort to debate, nationally, and internationally
3. No faith in my own final thesis
4. ...can think no more...
5. no sports time...bad, bad, bad!!! even no time for salsa!

see you soon, think that I really need a super suplements in handling my days. Probably, also need a haircut.

tattoos from an angel

She was very kind. Her Christian name is even Angela. Suits perfectly. And that day, strikingly, each of her friends had a tearful problem. Afterward, she bought a strip of temporary tattoo in the bazaar. With a help of a cup of Aqua, a pack of Paseo, and a scissors or cutter, then voila!
Meci got one sexy butterfly on the side of her neck.
Billy got one on his wrist.
Andie got two butterflies. One for his right bicep, and one for his back neck.
Billy then asked for more. This one was a flower on his right bicep.
And me? I got a butterfly on my left wrist, for a tearful problem that I thought it was me who hallucinated the whole knots of signs to become an agony, which I endure until I felt blessed.
And the angel? She got one too. One beautiful butterfly on her right hand, in between the thumb and forefinger, signified that she also had a problem.
And t’was, a real perfect painful day for us to smile over.

and this is a different story, played by the different butterfly...


.…and the butterfly didn’t understand. It flied around a yellow buttercup held in a strong grasp. At first, the hand shooed it off. The wave moved the wind around. It soothed the butterfly in this dry season. Wind run smoothly through its skin. Tickling sheer optimized by the pat of the hand. The hand admired beautiful pattern, which lingering on it. Butterfly really enjoyed, and didn’t understand. Then, the hand shooed, without patting. Minimum spoil made the butterfly reacted. It didn’t go away, but went nearer to the hand, asked for more. Then, I didn’t know what happened. I just turned my head for a while, attracted to adzan maghrib that stroke. Or adzan subuh, or the church bell, I couldn’t tell the difference. Since the puzzled mind was hardly processing what my ears heard, I came back to the butterfly. It was exhaustedly lying on a garbage pile beside the soil where the dandelions grew. And I heard the butterfly, “Ah, now I understand,” while it was struggling, twisted, in between stinky heap. The carbonate produced by the waste pulverized on the air, soaked into its skin, complete with low hiss. Ruined the beauty. And the butterfly said, “Thank you, for making me understand.”
Poor butterfly, I thought.

An SMS from a friend: “ There was an explosion in Kuta Square. Don’t know what that was. And I was 2 minutes away from the site.” I could not imagine the wariness I have of losing another friend, but in Indonesia, you just keep your finger crossed.

For the Stiff

I felt rocks fulfilling my stomach. Sick and tired. Sick of om om who kept on trying to impress. Tired of frowning my face, put maximum effort to be undesirable. So I wanted to spill those out. OUT. Unfortunately, best friends were sleeping, average friends couldn’t be contacted, undefined friends were not enthusiastic, and I do not have that many friends at all.
“What?” stroke him.
“Ehmm… nothing. Just have no fellows to share my stories with,” said me in spoiled voice.
“Ya, it’s you, ya… always have no clear aim why you call someone, why you talk with someone,”he talked graphically as he used to be.
Considering the noise as his background, then I asked where was he. And he was in public place. He is so like my father when it comes to public place: public enemy. Meaning: always complaining person, even to innocent sweet little kids. Absolutely with anger voices.
“Ouhkay, Mr. Stiff… how do you expect me to act to you? As your colleague? As your subordinate in your networking world? For those positions unable me having casual chit chats. But we’re more than that, rite?”
Glossary: “We’re friends!”
And friends do unimportant shares.

Waiting for the stiff to be loosened.

“Every now and then she looked around for tangible evidence of his having ever been there. Where were the butterflies? The blueberries? The whistling reed? She could find nothing, for he had left nothing but his stunning absence. An absence so decorative, so ornate, it was difficult for her to understand how she had ever endured, without falling dead or being consumed, his magnificent presence.”
-Toni Morison in Sula-

for me: the massive messages have been deleted.

Dreams of the Sexies

When her lips splashed out the word T H E C L A S H or T H E C U R E, 80’s and 90’s songs, the sexiness is still there. Still the same senses you felt nine years ago when she spelled B O Y Z O N E, or C O D E R E D D U E T S W I T H A L D A. No one could really copies her smirky face tickles the celebrities but then it will be neutralized with her apologic smiles and honorable mention of the upcoming artist with their videos. Originally entertaining. For my teenager hero, I do not want to exchange the dream with the real. She is an editor in chief for a hip female teenage magazine in Jakarta now. Knowing that behind the scenes of glossy pages are usually cloudy, dark effort to shine each day with pieces of abundant accessories to cover up their flows, thus they can be accepted and called unique beauty, as United Colours of Benetton campaigns. Absorbing that what actually happens out there are women versus women to defend their own identities in the name of postmodernism.
I opt to be still in teenage dream and crown her as my sexy hero.
Just as I do not want my lecturers to act casually, I want they to keep on the high dreams of mine. They’re good up there. Once touches my senses, all will be ruined.

A Phrase of Agony

How much do a frame takes more attention than the painting itself? It is when you as yourself, and only you, consider the real attraction is the frame, which used to be the painting, but somehow must be shifted into a frame. Straightforwardly,

She stared at standing people in front of her bleakly. Dark men in dark suits. Heavy skeletons kept them alive and faithfully brought them home to the ladies and children. Really, no glimpse of rainbows, or sparkled lights, which usually may glee her. All was a hard puzzle to be interpreted through lines and wrinkles on faces. You should contemplate rigidly until you may take the meaning of those old, exhausted faces were a struggle of life. Hard to think, when she was really in their same struggle too.
She did not do that. The staring of the big picture was just a full concentration, so she could see the line through the tip of her left eye. She couldn’t see it barely, though. But for sure, firm figure was there. The neck was higher than her softest hair on the peak of her head. You could tell the chest beating together with hers, though not in the same rhyme.

For it had decided not to take the same rhyme anymore.
For hands will not intermingled.
For the greatest power was conducting the organs, Dio.
And she understood and understands
Dio mysteriously will always right at the end.
Gloria in Excelsis Deo, they sing harkly on Christmas.
For the Dio, she shifted the main attraction into frame.
He had determined
To be the frame
Too
Stop painting all heavenly fountains of honey, sparkling, and apple that may pour and abundant her throat with sin.
The sweetest one.

kata menyesak lensa dengan hitam putih
alun menabuh gendang dengan ritma gembira
tipu banjiri udara lewat dua katup terbuka
Minteva penuhi rasa memberi intimasi semerbak
sengat dan beku meresap, aku lebih bahagia
itu baru indera
pun ribuan imaji kutusukkan ke labirinku
aku pun tunduk ke pembuat candu
anginnya meniup luka hingga halusinasi datang
karena darah membeku dan mengering
semua, agar kau tak terlihat,
sayangku.

You can See Much on A Bus

Taking public transportation makes you not immune for several things. First, pollution, of course. Second, being near to strange people, om om specially. Third, you’re also not immune to hate speech.

I was on my way back home on Sunday. Plead for more dosage of religious sanity. Budi was busy with Go and they would go together for a family lunch, so I didn’t wanna join. On one of the most comfortable bus in Jakarta, 102 (in my opinion, pardon), there came a man. A man with a face you can’t hate, fatherly figure. Thus, when you gaze at him, the depiction of children will emerge on his face. And he told us, the passenger: “Let us fight immorality. Immoralities like prostitution, gambling, et cetera. Those which was popularized by Jewish and Christian people. Now, let us do something, not just silent our actions. Where did all Christian people go when FPI was busy closing the pubs and prostitution? Christian people must also help the Moslem. Do not only quiet! Act! Or maybe they just want to let us act and be happy, laugh out loud when the Moslems died?...and he spoke out few verses from Quran.

I guess, God did not need my fortification. It was me, who needed the power
To stay calm
And still felt blissful that I was going to comfort myself at his/her/or whatever gender it is’s home


N.B: The next day afterward, I was on an ojek, took my way to the university when I saw a BIG baliho on the street saying, "Do not build any church here! If there is a buliding, just prepare for the risk! -Young Moslem Society-"

and it was near. So near to my house.

. .... .....

The diner is nearly closed for it was only the girl and a couple busy with their so called dinner. The girl sat in the seat near to the glass transparent window with dripped water of rain. The toaster was there paralleled a plate with tall neck where on top of it remained few slices of home-made pie. Old man was busy behind the desk counting how much he got for today. The billboard bulbs lost their ray sometimes, that the glowing multiplied colors on wet asphalt appeared on and out, delighted then sublimous grey. It was powerful since the moon was still hiding behind grayish clouds, which just had continued the sea work. Old recorder played Harry James’ It’s Been A Long Time, Dick Haymes’ It Might As Well Be Spring, Blue Moon, even from the Grease soundtrack, blues in the night. This is the setting I wanna go every time I need to cry out loud. Not by disappearing from earth. Guess this situation has a high quality to authority you exanimate yourself.

picture taken from www.film.org

Umeboshi

Narumi was an ordinary girl. Kind, polite, and unfussy. When the others grabbed salem and soft green polo shirts, she just stood in front of the display. The other four were hopping from Zara, Body Shop, Body & Soul, and a lil bit Kinokuniya. And Narumi left herself behind with native girls who also find a shop hop is too happening for them. As someone who had to use body language every time I connected with them, of course I left myself behind too. Tried to make a conversation with Narumi, explaining the name of this mall is Pondok Indah Mall 2 and we were going to Pondok Indah Mall 1… in half an hour gesture talking, which eventually she could understand the meaning by saying 1 is old and 2 is new. Being nice to each other, we gave our contact numbers and tried to gesture other meanings. Later on, Narumi handed me a little cute transparent wrapping with kanji and cartoon on it. What was inside? Umeboshi.
Umeboshi, a brownish round cake, seems like a big ginger candy with jellish texture. It has a solid core on its center, darker than the other side. The umeboshi was a lil bit wet. And I bite a bit. Hard corer than my mom’s jamu kencur. Muscles on my chins wrinkled automatically, and my eyes narrowed.
“Suki?”
“humm..ok. Nice,”said me, smirked, to the nice Narumi.
Tell me other tips to respect others’ traditional food rather than eat it wholly and say that it is ok. While wrinkled and smirked, Go came after me and said, “Ovi san… you should eat it fully at once.”
Thanks for the tips, Go.

so someone said, "Ov, you're smart, but not threatening enough."
Then I considered it means I'm not smart enough.

.....
too sweet, just like brown sugar or jasmine tea wrapped in delightful, firm, wooden craved box. Gratia gusti. Displaying tender view; purplish blossomed flowers on the valley, equaling the face to face touch and soft vocals. Understanding eyes aware of what really happens. Pitiful. Chained before glass ceiling. False consciusness accepted right. Framing the whole that cannot be bursted out.
Untouchable

picture taken from www.wrightslaw.com

I was at the headquarter of the imbecile and pervert but seem and look smart people.
No one interested to come this time.
So I amused myself with this pickled comments of newbees from my beloved friends on scattered papers:

“Gw gak nyuruh dia speech. Maap, ge nggak dikasitau. Gw emang ceroboh…”
(huahahahaha…yeah, it’s not a speech society, dear, but at least… J )

“She likes to speak, definitely. She has a thee-bathing basic and willing to develop it…But she is like an AGJ girl. I don’t know whether or not she will fit in E*S social life, we’ll see…”
(uh…oh… so, she’s normal and mainstream? Let’s just drown her in…hwehehehe…)

“This poor guy doesn’t even understand the questions. He needs me to translate all the questions and answers. He seems to join E*S to meet new girls.”
(Hey, each of us has our own purpose in life.)

“He has the Australian accent. But, he sure is a show off. Dia pamer bgt. To be honest, he was like gurggling rather than giving a speech.”
(Ah, another inter-male jealousy.)

“Shutter a bit, minimum eye contact. Come to think of it, maybe it’s my fault; right after he said he’s going to speak about orientation program at my faculty, I excitedly mentioned I’m in the disciplinary committee for my faculty orientation, so probably his speech was a little under pressure. Sorry…”
(another factor is, perhaps, your beauty myth, moonflower girl! :) )

funny, ya?

spare a thought of me

Hey…
Did not mean to peek-a-boo
Wednesday afternoon after a till dawn girl night talk,
Intended to be polite and seem doing some responsibility.
Mr. President said the interview started from 09.00 a.m. So I came…
At 09.30, of course. Procrastinator am I.
Red dusky carpet with doff orange wall.
Empty.
10.00…
really wanted to do some English, but times like this…who’ll come all the way to this wrecked building. Remote, I say.
No interviewee!!!
humm humm
Okay, Ov, let’s enjoy something.
Yummy…it fells like finding a pearl going through bubbleful straw with milk and blended ice.

“Things I can think of in 30 minutes starting from…
clothes-pants-feet-nail polish-beauty salon-girls-boys-patriarchy-feminism-ovie-mapres-doni-dictactor-hitler-WW II-chaos-poverty-…”

Rewind please…
Feminism-ovie…
Ups
Ovie…
It’s me. *happy*

I wonder, how much more I can find myself exist in others’ mind. This way, I read the artifact by myself. Wondering how much hasn’t been read yet.
It is pleasing, the thought of me.

P.S: you know who you are, writer. Peace yo! J Luv ya!

picture from psychcentral.com

*blush*
this blog is no longer virgin. Hate you, Uliel!!!! hwehehehe
humm...
it was meant to be under-constructed...
humm...
Uliel!!!

A pianist, A singer, and Blackcurrant Tea

Felt dizzy in my head and ailing throat. Makes you pull your thin vein till people say, “How sexy your voice is” while the blood is actually rushing through the narrow tunnel and push the skin, that it is sprayed and spread warmth, in my neck, forehead, and chins.
Longing for my mum’s hot ginger drink.
Couldn’t get it.
Checking phonebook of list of people I think would care for me find some amusement. So this talk-active guy and used-to-be-handsome-but-now-really-in-to-picking-his-own-face was available.
The journey was like a heavenly agony.
Thick smoke of old wrecked bus, which has never banned by the City Council. Harsh voice asking each one on the road to come in, into the ‘Ghost Ship’.
And there was I. With my flowery dress and broken white pointed shoes. Sitting like enjoying being there in the very back of the bus, which I didn’t care. I felt normal, if someone accompanied me. Is it funny how you won’t be awkward when you were with someone? My friend said the word is Insecure. Point is, I asked him to make me feel secure wearing a dress amongst abang-abang in the bus. Otherwise, I’d pick taxi, which is overmhelmingly expensive.

And I enjoyed to talk calm, heard his same old stories about his mad sister, over and over.
Enjoying my warm skin, let touched by polluted wind that sprang in from the bare ‘door’.
Enjoying the heavy eyes which sometimes will do connection with the throat and ask it to do little coughs.
Made me slow down, (seemed) wiser, do not need protection, but it is okay if you come, hug, and warm me.

Then, the next slides are just like beautiful colors of laser shot between creamy sofas with big cushions, glazing white tea pots and cups, and dark hard woody table.
The singer with almost likely Happy Clinic scent, clean jeans, long sleeve shirt, leather shoes, brown sling bag just like mine, and the girl.
The pianist, with always complaining stories, streamy chords, more beautiful face than mine (since it was steamed), cream bathed hair, and the other pianist.
Warm blackcurrant, chunky cheese and chocolate, talks of documentaries.
And old people with new entries, touches and sanities for me.
Snug. Cozy. Inspiring. Broadens.
But it is okay if you come, squeeze, and warm.
Picture by Ov