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