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.