Well said, Madame Piaf.
Well said indeed.
It is the usual meadow.
We regularly visit it: the recreational tea field, located at somewhere uphill, two-hours driving distance from odorless capital city where we live.
It is a ritual: we arrived, we ran toward the stable, we chose our own horses, and then we left for the restaurant nearby to grab a cup of lemon tea. Or two. Before we rode our horses.
I wore a cap that day.
A jacket? I think it’s grey. Some shorts and indistinct pair of shoes.
I ride my horse. We went for the usual turn, usual route.
The meadow, the creek, the trees. Every turn I’ve known very well.
Then the guardian asked me,
“Do you mind speeding up?”
Bring it on, I said.
The guardian then smacked the horse’s buttock and it ran faster.
I was thrilled.
I was ecstatic.
“Wohooo!” I could hear myself saying.
Okay, that’s enough.
The cap fell from my head. My hair slapped me on the cheek.
The corner of my eyes felt wet.
Somethings clutched my chest.
It was fear.
I wish someone would save me.
So I screamed.
But I’m on my own.
I’ve always been.
I ended up being saved by my dad. That was 10 years ago.
And now, I can’t keep asking people to fight my battle.
This is me, riding a horse.
Speeding up to the point it starts to pain me, out of fear.
what do I fear for?
I can’t stop. I can’t make it stop.
So why should I care of what’s ahead.
I may very well close my eyes right now.
Feel the wind on my skin.
Que sera sera.
A woman, middle-aged, lying on the bed.
She shed tears, overflowing.
Her legs and arms grew limp.
The way saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth.
The way mucus came out of her nostrils.
Oh. The way she pumped out all that tears.
She should’ve passed out any moment now, should she?
Her body seemed inert.
Nobody would’ve imagine her in any other shape.
As if she was made to cry that way, in that precise bed, and that exact position,
For days and days and days.
Until people talk about it and made legend out of it.
But she’s not alone.
There’s a child, watching her. A girl-child.
Her face were stoic.
Isn’t she just lumps of human meat, shaped like human,
which someone just put on the bed, and made to shed tears like human?
Or is she a withered flower?
Sitting beside her, the girl-child didn’t touch the woman.
Though she’s her mother.
We need to talk about the child
don’t you think?
Apa pula tertinggal di muka
Selain dari sepasang kristal jiwa
Dibingkai bulu mata, terpancar tatapnya
Menghunus, kata mereka!
Tak sejentik mereka duga
Sungguhnya pada lampu jalanan ia bercinta
Pembuai remuk redam dini hari
Pelempar seleret cahaya di betis
Jatuh segaris dengan peluh manusia rasa amis
Apa pula tersisa di muka
Jika bukan sebentuk lekuk penakluk
Dinaung hidung, tersemat bagai pita
Berbisa, kata mereka!
Sungguhnya gigi kuning rela bersaksi
Tentang pita yang terurai dan merekah
Kala yang empunya bertegur sapa
Tanpa niatan apa-apa
Meski yang berlidah lihai bicara,
Yang melihat lantang menantang,
Kalau tak dikata, manalah mereka kira
Akan kolonye sisa gesekan tiga-empat pejabat
Dada sisa remasan dua-tiga bandot tua
Rambut sisa jambakan satu-dua pemuda gila
Kala mereka tangkap sejejak kerak di muka,
Derai tawa dan tatap darinya kini beda makna.
Buang muka, tak balas sapa.
Kala ditanya, satulah jawab mereka:
Itu lacur namanya!
I want to live a thousand lives,
Feel a thousand vibes,
See through a thousand eyes!
I want to fall into a thousand vices,
And wounded by a thousand lies.
In love for a thousand times,
Broken for a thousand hearts.
Lead a thousand battles,
Slave to a thousand quarrels.
Win a thousand fights,
Lose a thousand more.
Kiss a thousand nights,
Flirt a thousand mornings.
Pray for a thousand dreams,
Curse for a thousand nothings.
Smile a thousand pains,
Cry a thousand bliss.
Being in a thousand shoes,
Build a thousand homes.
Then I die,
A thousand times.
To open up my eyes to a thousand different skies!
I want to live.
I want to live.
I want to live.
A thousand times, I will.
April 13th, 2015
I met this man sometime ago and today was the second time we were let in to his house.
We sat in his brand-new wooden gazebo and was supposed to talk about dyslexia but, you know, life is never about how you want it to be, so suddenly the wind of conversation changed into many directions we could no longer get a grip on. It was fun, though.
He talked of how there are people out there posing out as relationship motivator.
Despite ridiculing the idea at first, he admitted to be fascinated by one piece of advice he ever heard.
That, getting the ‘right’ person should have never been so difficult. Because, it’s all about sending and receiving the same signal. Green and green. Two people wanting to be together in the first place. Not at all about trying to change the red light into green–it will be just a waste of time.Yellow light is not tolerable either, because once the person found his/her green, he/she will surely dispose her yellow.
And I wondered whether that applied too to all things we wanted in life. Moments, jobs, people, places.
I believe it is.
Then I suddenly feel the strong urge to be back home.
I just need to be at home.
Among the people who will accept me regardless condition, time, moment.
On my way back in the train,
Friend of mine asked,
“Why is it you tend to hurt people without you knowing it?”
I answered, of course because I didn’t realise what I did apparently hurt people.
I am aware, though, how I tend to take too much more than I can give–and that’s bad.
I can’t keep those who matters to me. Things that are important to me. And when they’re gone, I don’t struggle. I don’t fight for them. I only feel emptier. Bit by bit.
I also am aware that I am present at the expense of other people.
I know they have to put out greater energy just to have me between them.
It cost them lot.
And I can never pay them back.
I am home now.
It’s just so good to be among people who accept me without expense–my father and brother.
In few weeks ahead I may visit my mother and sister too. Then my grandfather, grandmother, and my cousins–who all live in one roof.
I haven’t been home consecutively for more than a day.
In last two years, I can’t remember a time I visitted home without having specific interest.
I usually came back to take clothes. Or having to meet my friend nearby my house.
This is the first in last two years.
Father made a remark how odd it is for me to come home in the middle of the week, just for a day, without prior notice.
(I texted him an hour before I took the train)
But other than that, he still treated me the same.
Making sure I’m all stuffed. Offering good dine and some well-known local kebab he and my brother happened to take liking lately.
Mundane conversations–which are all good.
I’m just so happy to be home.
and she refuses to leave
she has always been here,
and I know
she will always be here.
I thought I had got over her, until recently.
I was in the middle of conversations. Lively, blaring, loud ones.
We were out of town. It was not so long after dusk we gathered ourselves on a nearby fast-food restaurant.
We had our own cup of chocolate-glazed sundae ice cream.
We were having fun.
One of my friend asked me to draw a character in a way that reflects the character’s profession, and to assign a name and age I prefer for the character.
I was given three minutes to do it.
I sketched whatever pops out in my head, and hand it to my friend.
She ‘read’ it.
She asked a few question out of my drawings.
She pointed out that something, something terribly essential must’ve been absent from my life.
I didn’t know what, neither did she.
Then it slipped out her lips.
“Quiet, isn’t it.”
“Everything around us.”
Then SHE bursted out just then.
The feeling I thought I’ve neglected over a year ago.
Something I thought only as a phase of this whole coming-of-age drama. I thought it will be all over. I’ll pass through it when the time has come.
And I’ve passed it. Or so I thought.
But no. SHE wouldn’t be too easy to fool.
SHE has never left. SHE only lingers deeper, waiting for the right time to crawl back to the surface.
And grabbed my feet out of alarm.
There SHE was. SHE is cruel.
Right then and there, SHE dragged herself towards me right at the time I was among my companion.
False sense of being guarded. False sense, indeed.
Who would have thought of vacuum space,
whilst engaging in a chatter of twenty people something?
Loud and gay as they screeched their say on the top of their lungs?
Not even I had the chance of sensing her grip
That the floor under me turned into trapdoor
and I fell
Down into the pitch dark pit
Whilst looking upward, to the hole of bright white light
Grewing even smaller by seconds
Hands were stretching out restlessly
Reaching out nothing but the air.
The boy feels it in the air: this is the moment.
He has a good sense of premonition, he always does.
He doesn’t need to explain it in words—he just knew
through his primal instinct.
Often, he complains on how the instinct dominates him more than his logic does.
Like, when that night it gave vigour to his hands to reach for the girl’s head—and kiss her on the lips.
His logic cursed him afterwards.
The girl giggled at this.
But I like it, she said.
The boy is assured this is the moment.
Once missed, never comes back.
So he decides to grab it, hold along the rope, and jump.
He stretches his hand for the girl to catch.
But the girl stays still.
“I can’t,” she says. “I belong to the earth.”
The balloon moves upward. Constantly so and never hesitates.
The time is running out. In split seconds there’ll be no chance to convince her.
There’ll be no chance for her to change her mind. The boy hoped she knew this.
But she knows this. And she doesn’t falter.
Earth was the only soil she knew she could grow upon.
And yet for him it’s only the sky that could freed his ever venturing soul.
He goes further and futher from the soil she lays her feet upon.
Until he is nothing more than a single dot in the sky, for the girl to see.
Until he’s lost to thousands of ancient dots that’s been shining since the beginning of time.
The earth has the girl stands still:
Feet fixed on the soil she could grow upon
Head tilted upwards
Eyes pierce throughout spaces she has never been through.
Possibilities beyond comprehension
throw sheer light on her heart,
made it a soil so fertile for stories to grow
on, and on, and on.
Surprise not, I changed my choice in last minutes. But still not a firm one, apparently. Few minutes after I put my ballot paper into the voting box, vague uncertainties eventually crept within me.
At times I often wish I this voting matter came to me as easy as it was for those non-overtly-skeptical minds.
I wish I could easily reduced this act of making choice to simply ‘became ignorant to your idol’s defect’, like a chauvinistic fangirl did. Yet I strayed from that collectively-popular frame, perhaps too extremely. Cynicism became my main state in scrutinising both candidates. Well, the cynicism goes a bit one-sided though.
This is my most basic premise:
If well-educated people who vote for Prabowo are deemed to be brain-washed minds who see violence as “mere excess” of New Order,
then aren’t those educated beings who vote for Jokowi weaklings for being oblivious and prone to media’s doctrine?
I am very much familiar of how deceitful media could be.
Pretending to be partial towards ‘greater good’ whilst in fact no more than mere extensions of malicious interests. Blowing up only what’s sensational, cut out the context if necessary, because bad news is good news.
And how not-so-noble people in it work.
Our journalists. They aren’t really working their asses off to provide contextually accurate facts. In the field, they’re no more than savages swarming for scraps of information that’s potential to blow hype for their medias. Sure, this doesn’t applies equally the same to all heads. But those who are sane and possess correct sense of morality in heart are not that many in number. And here we’re speaking about a society that values quantity over quality, whose people enslaved under the utopicly propagandic word, ‘democracy’.
It is thence natural for me to frown on whoever came to be bloated out of proportion by the media.
And there’s this guy.
Right after voting he gave few lines of commentary speech.
And I thought, Wow this guy really suck at public speaking.
But enthusiasms kept people from reading into his words–which contain nothing. Some voices echo “Jokowi is The President!” right after he finished giving speech.
People were desperately trying to reach over him. Tried to get their hands tainted by a glimpse of his, get through the bodyguards, willingly risked themselves get stomped over by bunch of barbaric journalists. In order to shake his hand.
And you know, what was embroidering his face all the time he’s escorted throughout all the commotion? Smile. A big wide one.
I was strucked.
I formerly was more into the other candidate. Presentation-wise and decision-making-wise, he has this reassuring firm and decisive manner. Just like the popular belief would say. I almost can justify his authoritarian tendency, born as a consequence of his superior intelligence. Not all people deserves to be heard. Not all voices matters. Not all brains can think.
But Prabowo got no suavity in delivering what he think is right. He got no eloquence in giving the impression of ‘listening to his people’. Noted, he tend to resort mostly to his own mind, but at least he can act like as if his decision was compounded from people’s voices.
There’s just a big absence of diplomatic ability in him.
Most chronically, he got no suavity in front of the media. At all.
On the election day, after voting session is over, he made a fuss by throwing hatreds towards medias politically opposing him.
I pitied him incredibly. He just does not know how not to jeopardize him further into negative sentiments. And it’s such a great loss if a leader knows not to bring himself diplomatic-wise.
His contender, Jokowi. At least seemed to have automated response to smile.
At most times, a single smile is more than enough to shut people off.
* * *
I still believe neither of the two came out as a really good choice.
Yet I got reassured once more of what I’ve chosen.
If the two paths eventually lead us ashtray, let the people be fooled by the illusion of having made the right choice.
Of really having changes.
Because people don’t really need proof of changes. They just need to feel the impression that there are changes. People does not need a sense of objective reality. They fabricate their preferred own. They will sort out only pieces of information that serve justification on what they believe. They like to produce the evidences to convince themselves. That’s why there are medias and advertisers.
All the society need is to be dipped deeply into big sauce of illusion.
But I’m here to be proven wrong.
Great actors are big-hearted.
…I don’t have big heart.