One: Vertigo

 

“Eyes and ears and mouth and nose,

mouth and nose,

mouth and nose.

Eyes and ears and mouth and nose.

We all clap hands together!”

The nursery song rang through Lisa’s ears very clearly as she stood in front of the mirror. She touched the contours of her dark eyes, full lips, and pointed nose. She mouthed the lyrics softly and closed her eyes.

Like a thick fog, a mild darkness surrounded her, forming a cocoon enclosing her body. Rays of early sunlight pushed their way into the walls of the cocoon. There were glimpses of faint light in that darkness, followed by splotches of color here and there. Dark lines rippled in and out of the dark, like sea snakes dancing in the black waters of the deepest oceans. The Ocean. Yes, that’s where she was. In a cocoon shaped underwater vehicle sinking through the trenches of the ocean.

She kept feeling her face. She saw something appear in her ocean. The two eyes. The mouth. The Nose. It was creating a face before her. Her face. There was a softness in her eyes. They were kind and calm and reserved. She looked back at the face she knew so well and smiled.

They said she had her mother’s eyes, pretty brown eyes that emanated warmth and compassion. They were eyes that sparkled when she laughed. They were eyes that were honest - and innocent, like those of a child. Age could not deprive them of youth, but supplied them with wisdom.

The two eyes stared back at her. Her mother stared back at her. There was a characteristic look upon them. It was the look she wore when Lisa had done something good, like the time she got straight A’s at school or when she won the talent competition. It was also the look she wore when she was listening to her story about how she fell in love with the boy next door. It was open and understanding.

The face smiled at her. It was her smile and her mother’s smile. A dimple dug itself into her left cheek. Then the mouth split open, revealing an array of white teeth, and it transformed into her father’s smile. This smile was wide and full of merriment.

Suddenly, the splotches of color around the cocoon started to move faster, appearing and disappearing rapidly. It was magenta, blue, and green all at once. Then they swirled into a frenzy while the snakes swum in and out of the walls, glowing like bright neon lights. It was chaos. The sea had gone. But the face remained, smiling widely at her.

A low rumble started to sound, shaking the inner walls of the cocoon. The sound waves bounced off the walls echoing the noise. It was cacophony and ecstasy at the same time. It was painful. But strangely, there was something exciting about the animated vertigo.

The face started to laugh. With its laugh, the cocoon shook uncontrollably, spinning wildly. It was both earthquake and cyclone at the same time. More color’s appeared from a volcanic eruption. The face disappeared in a whirl of color, but its laugh remained… and the song came back…

“Eyes and ears and mouth and nose, mouth and nose, mouth and nose…

The song repeated itself and the storm persisted. The tempo multiplied itself, peaking in a crescendo, while the volume increased. Amidst it all, a small voice uttered a plea for help. However, it was soon drowned by the sound of clapping. Then there was laughter. Who was it? Beneath the shelter of her eyelids, she could not recognize the high pitched and slightly sinister laugh that reverberated across the walls.

As the curiosity began to engulf her, a blinding light appeared amongst the chaos. It pierced the current of colors, forming a straight white line in the middle of the wall. The spinning came to a halt and everything exploded into a final burst of color. A thundering bang followed shortly afterwards.

Lisa opened her eyes.

She could see only white. She was in a bright mist.

The mist dissolved slowly. She could see the silhouettes of the objects in her room coming to focus. First, it was her bed. Then her desk. Her cupboard, coat stand, and the rest of the contents in her room followed soon after.

Lisa was sitting down on the floor of her room. Everything was back to normal. But it was also alien.

She knew she had just experienced another seizure. It was getting more frequent. It was real and definite, like falling asleep and eating. Thus the time in between the attacks were getting slimmer. It got difficult to determine what was supposed to be normal and what wasn’t.

They happened often, more so when she was alone. The self-therapy she had tried didn’t seem to work. Maybe it was because there was no sure reason of how it came to be.

“It could be stress,” they said.

“She’s too tired.”

“She just likes the attention.”

“There’s something terribly wrong with that girl.”

People didn’t know how to regard her illness. It was not a normal headache – she’d exchange it for that any day. She never saw a therapist. She knew she wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t an act. But some people doubted her.

She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. There she was, same as ever. She was moderately tall for a twenty year old, but rather scrawny. Her skin was pale and looked even more ghostly beneath the black clothes that covered her body. She didn’t like her current reflection. They said she used to be prettier, healthier. She wanted to look away from the sight in front of her.

Instead, Lisa took a step forward, and another, until she was an inch from the 6-foot mirror. She could see her face very clearly now. Her lips were dry and chapped. Her cheeks were sunken pits resting on each side of her face. And her eyes… There was something new, something strange about her eyes. She leaned in closer towards the mirror…

Panic closed in on her. She couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing. How could it be? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The reflection didn’t change.

Her heart raced and she took several staggering steps backwards, distancing herself from the mirror.

 

In the depths of her soul, a small voice cried out.

 

Those eyes. Those eyes aren’t mine!

 

 

- end of first segment -

Breaking Point 1#

It's not giving up...

Just tired of accomodating to the majority's perception of success and achievement.

Bored of the paradigm, and the bureaucracy, and the unwritten regulations that defines whether or not you've succeeded, whether or not you deserve to be prided and respected, whether or not you deserve to be credited for the small but meaningful things you do in life...

Who's to say whether or not you have the right to alleviate from the traditional expectancies, postmodern ways - that have even proved to be a failure of defining one's honor and dignity...

So it's not giving up.

It's just an ounce of resentment towards the "tolerance" that one has to deal with.

Coretan Kecil untuk Lomba Puisi

tema: kesetiaan


Sejumput Kata Sederhana: Kesetiaan

ada sebutir bening di matamu
saat ia katakan: "aku disini"
karena kau tak pernah tahu apa makna "ditemani"
atau "aku ada"

karena kesedihan itu bagai selimut
yang menggenggam erat setiap ruas ditubuhmu
hingga kau remuk, hilang bentuk
dan mereka tak mengenalimu lagi

karena amarah itu seperti bau
yang merampas baumu sendiri
hingga kau tak punya bau, mereka mencium baumu yang lain
dan mereka jijik padamu

akhirnya mereka pergi. mereka "tidak ada". "tidak menemani".

hanya dia yang tersisa
perlahan mengupas selimut yang menempel di tubuhmu
mengusir bau itu, membersihkan jiwamu
hingga kau kembali menjadi kamu yang semula
walau bekas-bekas dari sebuah peristiwa kapan hari itu masih tersisa
di rambutmu
di sela-sela kukumu
di kulitmu

tapi ia berkata "aku ada"
lalu ia berdiri disampingmu
sehingga kau mengerti apa itu "ditemani"

bening itu mengalir
melewati mata,
hidung,
pipi,
lalu jatuh pada
senyuman di bibirmu.

Kau tak sendiri lagi, kawan.

 

 

*untuk kawanku yang spesial

Home

 

About 7 years ago, when I was in junior high school, I was forced to enter an English speech competition. I had a case of the nerves back then so I did not like the idea of speaking in front of so many people. Plus, it was about a week before the competition when they told me I had to enter. The combined force of my teachers and parents in the end made it clear that I couldn’t get out of this one.

The competition was held by a domestic furniture company that had opened a new branch in my hometown. The theme was, if I remember correctly, “My Dream House” (or was it my ideal house?). But I do really remember the house part. “House” not “Home”.

So there I was making a speech about wanting a house with 2 or 3 floors, elaborate interior designs, complete with a swimming pool. We were talking about a dream house, weren’t we? But in the end I stated that the most important thing about it was that it had to be comfortable and cozy. I had to enjoy living in it too.

So I went to the competition and… I didn’t win (haha). I wasn’t too surprised. My manner wasn’t great and I was still holding on to the text (I hadn’t had time to memorize it properly). However, I was shocked to find that the first and second winners had amazingly similar speeches and they were talking about a dream home, not a dream house. Their speeches talked about how their homes needn’t be big, but it should be filled with family love and care etc. A touching speech, yes, but predictable (LOL, I’m being harsh, I’m sorry).

Anyway, I got over the loss quite quickly, since I never wanted to compete in the first place. But I was annoyed at the theme’s choice of words. I don’t mean to be a sore loser but honestly, if they wanted a speech about the perfect home, my speech would’ve been so different.

 

***

To me, a house is different from a home. “House” is just a technical term for a place to stay. Just a structure symbolized with a triangle on top of a square. It could be made out of bricks or wood or even metal. It could be big or small, fancy or simple. It doesn’t emit any sense of emotions for me. I could say… it’s just a house.

But a “home” encloses a cacophony of emotions and feelings. It’s both shelter and sanctuary. It’s a place where you feel attached to and gives you a sense of belonging.

You can call a house yours once you buy it or when somebody gives it to you. But you can’t buy a home. Plus, the whole concept of its ownership is more complicated than a bunch of paperwork.

My family and I have moved to plenty of places throughout my life. We have moved both inside the country and outside of the country. So we have had to let go of our houses repeatedly. I used to think that we were letting go of our homes, my home.

I had a rough time getting over selling our house in Mataram. We had lived for nearly 10 years there. We had just finished renovating it from a small one-storied house to a medium sized two-storied house. We had a nice garden and a yard big enough for parties and gatherings. The house became a witness to many events: my childhood, my teenage life, my family feuds, my friendships, my relationships… So when we had to move and sell it, I felt like I was losing the history and the memories. I had lost my home.

It was hard to adjust to the new place. It was not only different, it was in another country. I felt like an alien. I thought I could never call it home. I missed my old house badly.

 

 

Time went by and a lot of events took place. They were the kind of events that made you realize that family was so important, so vital in life. They were events that made you realize that in times of great trouble or despair there is nowhere better to be than where your family is. They are the beings that make up your sanctuary: a place where you can feel safe and calm.

So after one and a half years, I could finally call our new place my home. I can finally miss our new house, my new room, our petite garden, and the monochromatic walls. Everyone who makes it a home is there.

We haven’t lost the history or the memories. We’ve just brought them along to our new place. And we’re ready to add some more.

 

***

 

Philosophically, there is nothing wrong about something new. Change is needed sometimes. Dynamics in life make life itself interesting. Moving on is essential.

The best part is, we can look forward to the great chances and possibilities yet to come.

Savor it.

Quote of the Day (3)

“Oh Allah… When I lose hope because my plans have come to nothing, please help me remember that your love is always greater than my disappointment and your plans for my life are always better than my dreams. Ya Allah, help me to remember more and more often. Amiin.” (ProudToBeMoslemSite)

Muse

 

Searching….

…

…

…

Result: Nothing.

I can’t find you. Its either you’re hiding. Or you’re lost. Or you’re avoiding me. Or maybe you don’t exist?

What is it you’re searching for, dear?

Answers.

What else?

Hope. Strength. Wisdom. Faith. Perseverance.

Of course they exist. You’ll find them.

Maybe they don’t. Not for me, anyway.

What makes you think so?

Because I’ve been searching for them all this time and I still haven’t found them.

Be patient.

Easy for you to say.

Why do you say that?

…

Because you don’t feel. You don’t know. And you don’t exist.

Confessions of a 22-Year-Old

On June, 18^th I woke up feeling great. It was my birthday. It was just the normal childish feeling that engulfs you when you know you’ve passed another year, you are older, and in a few moments everyone is going to say their best wishes for you. You feel special.

On June, 19^th, I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about how on earth I could feel so great when I was turning older and my time was running out. My life just flashed in front of me: my failed ambitions, my square job, my deficit income. And I just cried my heart out, thinking about my choices and the time wasted, wishing that I could go back.

The truth is I almost hate my current occupation. I am still a trainee at the local government’s tax office. No much of anybody yet. My academic status is only from a diploma program (no offence guys). The monthly compensation I get from the government is just enough to cover my housing rent, but for food and expenses… well I’m still burdening my parents and family.

I stared into the future and saw the cramped possibilities. I could go to college again, two years later. An older me – that’s unappealing. But what about marriage? What about my family? Yes, I do have girlish fantasies. I always wanted to settle down at home and be a good wife. Unfortunately, the two ambitions were mutually exclusive for the projected period of time.

I always wanted to study my heart out in something I love and am passionate about, like literature and philosophy. I wanted to study abroad. I wanted to write and teach. Or go to law school and be a great judge. In the process, I wanted to keep inspiring people. But that night, I thought, “I am running out of time. And youth is escaping me”.

Back then, my school days were promising. I worked pretty hard. I got good grades. My teachers gave me support and plenty of assuring compliments. A kid like me thought innocently that they were the promises of a bright and exciting future.

Then my thoughts got back to the details of work. The mound of files. The untidy desks. The cramped workspace. And worst of all, the current institution forced upon me that was last on my choice list: the Tax Ministry. Dear God, I’m still not sure if tax is even legal in my religion. Worst of all is the unreliable system that is prone to so many atrocities. I don’t want to get stuck there. It’s already hard now. What would it be like in the future?

I was slightly ashamed of myself for the uncharacteristic complaining and pathetic crying. But I thought what the heck, yesterday was my birthday and I needed this time for myself. So there I was, sobbing to my best friend about my disappointment in my life and wanting to give up. I let myself be swallowed with the emotions. He tried to talk me out of the self-indulgence and gave me advices: “just live with it for a while”. “You can catch up later”. “Think of it as phase or stepping stone towards your dreams”. But you know what I ungratefully said? I told him to shut up. Haha… I already knew all those things. I told myself those things every day. Then I told him that at that moment I wanted to whine and be selfish, just for a while… And he let me (God bless him).

I continued thinking about how I desperately wanted to drop everything and start again with my ambitions. I could go to university again. I was sure I could do it. But on the other hand, I thought about how much time and money had been spent on my account and how much my parents had sacrificed. And it wasn’t just my parents; the government had been paying for my education, ensuring my job, and paying my salary from the taxpayer’s money. And I don’t think that anyone could guarantee that they were willing considering the fact that their money could’ve gone to other personal benefits.

I sighed. Why wasn’t the thought enough to console me? It only made me feel guilty. But it succeeded in shutting me up, at least.

***

A week later, I was sitting on my bed, sighing pathetically at the doctor’s bill from an appointment I just had the night before. I had been absent from work for almost a week because of a complication of illnesses (I prefer not to mention). I hated that I had to visit the doctor again. It was the fifth (sixth? I honestly forgot) time this year. The numbers on the bill were outrageous. But I had no choice since permission for an absence of more than 3 days required a note from the doctor in order to be valid. I also cursed silently to think about the current sanction for these absences: 5% of your monthly salary. Per day.

So folks, in Indonesia, the government punishes you for being sick with the same tariff whether you have a doctor’s note or not. They cut your salary when you might’ve been sick from working for their majesties butts and you have to pay for the doctor’s bills and the expensive unsubsidized meds in order to get well for the sake of working for them. Well okay, it is reasonable to not get paid for the days you don’t work for, but please cut us some slack.

Meanwhile, the rest of my beloved colleagues are talking about remuneration and how it is so grand and how they love the respected SMI for it (a strange reason to love her). And while some of us are trying to cope and be satisfied with the current conditions, they are busy posting in the social network, whining and rambling about how it’s so unfair that GAPOK hasn’t been given to them. That their housing costs 50-65% 0f the monthly compensation and the rest isn’t enough to cope with. And that they are sick of the false rumors of its arrival and so they’re sick of waiting… bla, bla, bla… We haven’t even been allegedly acknowledged as PNS but we’re already asking for a sooner payment for of our work. Go figure.

Hm…

Suddenly I felt ashamed of my own whining. Hey, I’ve been strong enough to cope. Why give up now?

I remembered all the good things. All the friends I made, STANEC, AKSARA… all the things that I couldn’t have had without this bumpy climb.

***

On June, 25^th a text message appeared in my inbox from my junior:

“Mb..bsok final debate mnicomp nya.. we do really hope u’ll come. pagi kok..thanks a lot.

And that message made me spirited again. I remembered the valuable times adjudicating these spirited debaters, about what an honor it was to be asked for help by them. I remembered the “tumpeng” they made for my birthday last week. I remembered how they always listened attentively and gave me the overwhelming respect I’m not even sure I deserve.

Then there were the other marvelous hang-outs I had with the EXCOMIN, the late nights at McD’s, the heart-to-heart talks… priceless.

I also remembered all the competitions, the ceremonies, and the events I experienced during my time at STAN, between the school tasks and hard work I was obliged to complete to get me here now and I thought… things aren’t so bad at all.

Then I had a revelation of the things I used to see, not so long ago. About some things I had forgotten.

“There is more to life than meets the eye. We won’t always get what we want, but there are treats along the way. Enjoy the process. You might find that your dreams have already come true”.

There’s a saying that sometimes you can see an ant across the road, but you can’t see an elephant right in front of you (that’s not the exact transliteration but it’s something like that). The quoted words above have been written on a piece of colored paper, stuck on the wall by my bedside. I stuck them there months ago. Go figure.

***

I always wanted to be a teacher. In essence, I just wanted to help others learn. I realize I have done that and am still doing that at least in 30% of my time by giving lessons periodically and coaching for STANEC.

I opted to be a judge. In essence, I just wanted to be the one with the authority to judge. I realize I have done that and am still doing that in at least 15% of my time, every week, by adjudicating for STANEC. It’s totally rewarding (not entirely in the materialistic sense, of course).

I dreamed of inspiring people. I hope I have done that. And I still wish to do that, through the power of words that I am so fond of, in both speech and writing.

I just forgot how to be thankful. Lack of gratitude blinds you. Now that I remember, I can see that.

Everything is great again.

Everything is going to be okay.

***

“For you don’t have to be a musician to play music. You don’t have to be a teacher to help others to learn. Cherish the time you have, use it well, and achieve as much as you can.”

26^th June 2010

4:06 am

My room.

 

Quote of The Day (2)

“My religion is not a clothing that I can wear until I'm bored, mix and match it with other clothes, and throw it away when I'm done with it. It doesn't suddenly change style to adapt to the era, nor does it wear away and die. I can't wear it to just any party. So I'll proudly wear it for the "party" You created it for.”

prosa: balada proletariat

sejenak kau pandangi langit yang membentang luas diatasmu. langit itu tak lagi biru. seketika kau ingin merasakan kedamaian itu sebentar saja. namun ada yang keliru dengan berita yang sampai padamu. entah keliru atau mereka sekedar merayumu, membuatmu percaya bahwa semuanya baik-baik saja.

kau lihat awan yang berwarna kelabu. bukan putih, seperti yang kau idam-idamkan, seperti yang mereka katakan. karena itu memang hanya bualan mereka tentang keadaan yang ada. atau setidaknya mereka memutarbalikkan fakta tentang apa yang seharusnya dan tidak seharusnya. agar kau merasa senang dan percaya bahwa semuanya baik-baik saja.

lalu hawa panas itu menyelimutimu. tidak seperti hangatnya pelukan dari keluarga yang berkumpul di antah berantah, sesuatu yang nyaris kau lupakan. sudah terlalu lama kau tak kembali. karena mereka menjamin bahwa apa yang dibutuhkan sudah ada buatmu dan keluargamu. maka dengan santainya kau pergi ke negeri orang, mencari sesuap nasi dan segenggam berlian untuk kau bawa pulang.

tapi kau pulang untuk menemukan bahwa tidak ada yang menyambutmu. langit tak lagi biru. nafasmu sesak dengan aroma-aroma yang tidak sedap. entah itu bau amis dari maksiat mereka yang mengaku wakil rakyat. atau bau keringat proletariat yang sudah sekian lama membanting tulang di pinggir jalan, atau kolong-kolong jembatan karena menara-menara tinggi itu tak mungkin diperuntukkan bagi mereka. belum lagi darah yang sudah tumpah. dan juga tangis yang sudah lama mengering.

kau tak mengerti lagi apa yang mereka sebut sebagai “keadilan sosial” atau “permusyawaratan perwakilan”. yang jelas bukan lagi seperti yang mereka ajarkan kepadamu saat kau masih menjadi anak ingusan yang sering tertidur di bangku paling belakang. saat pak guru menjelaskan tentang pancasila, kedaulatan negara, dan kesejahteraan rakyat. bahkan sekarang kau temukan bahwa pancasila sudah berubah. tak lagi diilhami bhinekka tunggal ika. mungkin tak lagi “panca”. dan tak lagi mengenal tuhan.

kau sadari bahwa sesuap nasi dan segenggam berlian yang kau bawa pulang tak cukup untuk impian sederhanamu untuk hidup bersama sanak saudara. karena makan 3 kali sehari pun menjadi barang mewah. kau harus menurunkan standar kemewahan yang semula berupa motor, mobil, dan rumah karena inflasi-deflasi yang tak karuan. padahal mereka bilang ekonomi sudah stabil. standar hidup sudah naik. dan kau tak perlu khawatir. karena langit itu akan semakin biru.

***

lama kau pandangi langit itu. menahan sesak di dadamu dan panas yang membakar kulitmu. disana langit itu berujung, menyentuh bumi yang sudah tak lagi hijau. namun sampai kini kau masih menaruh harapan pada janji-janji mereka. bahwa suatu saat nanti, langit akan kembali biru. awan akan kembali putih. dan kau dapat menghirup udara sejuk kedamaian.

 

kau akan menunggu detik-detik kemenangan itu. walau kemenangan itu hanya sesaat.

Writer’s Block

 

I have introduced myself as a person who loves writing. I love literature. I love the whole cacophony of words in the universal art of communication.

 

But lately (as in months), I haven’t been able to produce an original piece of writing that I can actually acknowledge as satisfactory. I am out of ideas, also initiative, to create a piece that I can be proud of. It’s really very annoying.

 

So can I call it “writers block”? The reason why this question arises is that I find it too early for myself to be considered a writer. I mean, have I made any novels? Have I had my writings published in any newspapers or magazines? Have I ever won any writing competitions? It’s quite an embarrassment.

 

It’s not like I haven’t made any plans. I have a concept for a novel. I have an outline for a documentary. I have a plot for a short story. And poems just keep writing themselves in my mind. What is lacking is the consistency and perseverance to execute those plans.

 

I am sure that what I’m experiencing isn’t an uncommon "syndrome”. I just don’t know what to call it. So here I am, just for the sake of writing, writing something because I cringe at the thought of the neglect that my poor blog has suffered.

 

I hope I cross over this limbo very soon, because the it has made my mind scrawny. Ignorance and neglect is consuming, whereas words are food.

 

I have been through a lull and it’s time to be refreshed and rejuvenated!

 

Keep spirited!