New habit this semester, every subject dealing with international law gives us tasks in which we are to translate and summarize given english articles on international law, every time we have class. My main concern is I won’t be able to skip class at all. Tragic!
It’s the new Dean, supportive and visionary proffessor who feels students majoring in international law should know what they’re getting themselves into, they say daunting books if you’re lucky, written in the most unpractical english if you’re unlucky. So should students think ‘shit I can’t do this’, they’d best think it at the very beginning of the semester so that they could still bail out. The new system has successfully driven away a few people from int’l law, in the course of two days. Not surprised, after the single page article we had to summarize today took more than an hour to complete, half an hour spent in privately discussing what it actually meant. Personally, I’d rather blame the intelligent scholar who wrote the damn thing for not using plain english. On a more serious note, it is rather fun and challenging... god I’m going to regret saying that.

Wrote this in highschool, 5 years ago

It’s the effort that makes you cringe away from its inconstant beauty.
You wake up and find it staring, glowering at you like a deadline,
telling you to wake up and appreciate it
(and get snappy coz it doesn’t last forever)
And if it’s a game, why should I appreciate it?
And if it’s a dream, why should I be living in it?
And if it’s a process to get “there”, why should I go there?
If I surpassed its bounds, a sinner I would be.
And yet I am a free soul.
Boundless. Relentless.
Sinless?
Look but don’t touch.
Touch, but don’t taste
Taste, but don’t feel
Feel, but don’t enjoy
Enjoy, but not too much
Because we are free sinners.

I’ve come a long way since then, finding answers along the way.
Important to refresh my mind on that because… I’m twenty and a hell of a lot of challenges are coming my way.
Musn’t get carried away.
(hey, that rhymes..)

He said..
"...I dont know Teez... sometimes I feel that You're just too good to be true! I even think that I'm not worthed at all... I mean, there you are... so high, and so PERFECT! while here I am.., moaning.. cryin' my life, disgusted to look on my own reflection!I love thee, Teez... but I dont know if I deserve someone like you... I dont know if I could level you.. I'm not running away, I'm just scared... that's all..."

I've been thinking about it for a while and... there just really is no response to that.
I mean.... Fine.

Nobody's perfect.... shirimasen deshyoka

Pimps & Prostitutes

Tory’s being assigned to East Timor next month, and the crazy bule, along with a few of her friends at UN who were also leaving, threw a farewell party last night with a fabulous dresscode: pimps and prostitutes! She promised jazz bands and strippers, but we found a dangdut orchestra instead. Still, highly amusing, and anything goes coz the drinks were freeflowing, the rooftop venue was breezy, the crowd was merry, and shit the margheritas were excellent. I look at the pictures this morning and I think, god I need to get rid of these pictures. Decency doesn’t come to mind. Tory gathered us around her just before it all started, and made this beautiful, emotional farewell speech, which almost ruined most of our mascara. It would never work to have it written down, it would lose it’s charm. But I look at her and I’m just simply inspired. Wherever she would go, whatever country she would be assigned to next, for the rest of her life, she will leave a trail of young and dreaming people like us, enlightened and ready to break barriers.
Then we clinked our wineglasses to the merry chorus of “WE FUCKING LOVE YOU TORY !!”. And the night began.

Kagumilah ini…

Ketika kau berbicara aku tidak berharap
Tapi harapan itu kau timbulkan dengan sendirinya
Dengan sejuta tanda-tanda kecil

Ketika aku tertawa aku tidak jujur
Menyimpan harapan yang membandel
Mengubah tawa menjadi pecahan kaca

Ketika aku merasa bodoh, akupun berpaling
Menarik diri dari pusaran gravitasi
Meninggalkanmu dengannya.

Again, distracted.
Sometimes I wonder whether I should just quit everything and spend my lifetime writing and playing jazz. This has been a perfect day, really, except now I can’t do my speech drafting because I want to write about other things besides how destroying civilian objects violates international law. So today I:
05.00-07.00: Finished as much as I could finish my speech drafting.
07.00-09.00 : Exercised. Skipping and stuff accompanied by Bill Evans Live at the Montreaux Jazz Festival. Not exactly adrenalin rushing music but it adds quality to mornings!
09.00-12.00: breakfast, long shower, played piano. Currently working on that blasted and beautiful Time Remembered by none other than (you’d never guess!) Bill Evans, which has the weirdest, hardest, most beautiful chord progressions I’ve yet encountered, and simply not making much progress. Haven’t even started improvising :(
12.00-13.00: Took a nap. Ate muesli with yoghurt for lunch, sadiss… ceritanya mau hidup sehat.
13.00-17.00: Went shopping with ex-boyfriend who is an excellent critique hence perfect shopping companion. Something about shopping always makes a girl feel good, unfortunately.
17.00-19.00: Took a lightning nap, lounged about restlessly, had an early dinner.
19.00-22.00: Off to Tory’s place to have my speech draft scrutinized, found out that mine was the most “minimalist” compared to the others hence needed to be significantly repaired, supposedly TONIGHT. We did 6 minute speeches and she said I had good structure but it was “fluffy”. Can you believe the way she just makes words up like that ? I mean, what can you say if somebody tells you your speech was “fluffy” ?? Teddy bears and pillows come to mind for God’s sake.
22.00-23.00: Met up with Dad and Kane at Izzi Pizza in time for dessert, melting chocolate cake with a dollop of ice cream accompanied with a cup of Illy black coffee. So much for the muesli.
23.00- now: Rooted in front of this screen, mustering up strong resolve to finish my speech draft. *sigh*.
Alright, bring on the civilian objects.

I’m in love with a gentleman with whom I feel unladylike in comparison.
It’s not that he’s articulate, dashing, dresses well and has a dark, brooding smile. It’s not that we spend hours talking about politics and social culture over wine or an exquisite blend of coffee.
It’s that he’s loyal, unlike me. And he sticks to the rules, unlike me.
And by the way, he doesn’t care how he dresses, has a shy sort of smile and we spend hours talking of nothing and everything over the phone. And ice cream, once.
And he’s in love, unlike me, to someone else.
Did I say I love him? I take that back. I haven’t a single clue what love is.
Much too abstract.
There are people who love you and feel it as a justification for owning you and tying you down.
There are people who love you and say they would go to the ends of the earth to be with you but cannot even spend time with you.
There are people who love you, yet love someone else a month later...
No, love is a vague and fuzzy word.

But I broke the rules for him.
And I’m inspired by him.
And I laugh with him, liberatingly, at times when I’m determined not to laugh.
And I’m not bothered about how different we are
And he lingers on my mind, stubbornly,
like a secret yearning to be revealed.

I’ve been waiting.

So where art thou now ?
Elusive as a dark mist
Every word remains a word
And nothing else, as I had feared
And I barely know you, still.

And life keeps flowing.

[This insomnia has to be unhealthy.]

What’s going on in the corner of her mind?
There’s a man with a gun trying to be kind
There’s a girl with a smile that looks tired
There’s a woman, her third eye’s almost blind
Then there’s herself, she knows she’s lied
And they all sat back and they just sighed.

They say rules are just a guide
The rest is an effort not to follow the tide.

[And I didn’t even have caffeine, damn it.]

Sleepless night. Too much caffeine. I keep coming back to this screen with thoughts coming out like a tangled mess. Whatever it is I’ll find out here as I type. Hopefully. Doesn’t really matter either way. Dropped by at Starbucks on the way home, savoured a lovely Sumatra black coffee, a sinful blueberry cheesecake, and a relaxed, girlie conversation with Indie.
Deserved it.
I'm single and happy, and waiting. For things to happen. Doesn't make sense really, when things should really be sought for instead of waited for. I'm thinking too much. The very fact that i'm here in this ungodly hour when i could be having some decent sleep or doing my research indicates something's up. Life is not perfect and i love it, i love the way every comfort as simple as coffee can become precious in stark comparison to every pain as complicated as emptiness. As simple as a phonecall in comparison to confusion. As simple as writing in comparison to crying. As simple as girlie conversations in comparison to legal jargons. Everything has new life breathed into it and fresh pain closely following, everything a perfect balance of imperfection.
This is what life should be, throwing shit at you for you to evade the next pile of shit.

Yesterday was a million years ago
in all my past lives i played an asshole
now i found you, it's almost too late
and this earth seems obliviating
high and dead our skin is glass
i'm so empty here without you
i crack and split my xerox hands
i know it's the last day on earth
we'll be together while the planet dies
the dogs slaughter each other softly
love burns it's casualties
we are damaged provider modules
spill the seeds at our children's feet
i'm so empty here without you
i know it's the last day on earth
we'll never say goodbye

There are these blinking moments
Where ideas just rush into my head
Like worms to a corpse
my head tingles and vibrates
chaos happens, there are so many voices
I can’t leave anything out.
Words are written down and I
feel the gush of release
But tunes and rythms have no vent
I sit on my piano and shit happens...
I can never play the song in my head

ignorant, confirmed !

Rome, June 4.
President George W. Bush was in town, and anti-American sentiment was running riotously high. More than 10.000 policemen were on the streets. Security experts had secured manholes, removed trash dumpsters and flushed out sewer systems – the better to safeguard against bombs and snipers.
None of that deterred the 250.000 demonstrators who poured into the streets and squares, upending trash cans and setting up barbed-wire barricades of their own. They burned tires and American flags, threatened patrons at McDonald’s, smashed car windows and threw smoke bombs at police.
Amid the chaos, two blond college-age American girls wearing sneakers and low-rider denim shorts happened upon the Piazza della Republica, the epicenter of it all. After a moment of surprise, enlightment dawned.
“Hey,” one said to the other. “This must be where George Clooney and Brad Pitt are filming!”
(“Innocents Abroad”, Newsweek June 28, 2004)

Java Blue

Just got back from Semarang, attending my cousin’s wedding. We had all been thrown into turmoil weeks before the wedding, preparing every little detail. I’d been sent on endless errands to the dressmaker, as Mom wanted her Kebaya to be perfect. I made two, she made three. There were the sarungs. The shoes. The hairpieces. The accessories to think of.
When we gathered in Semarang the ladies would then compare the results of their toil, complimenting each other’s choice of colour and fabric, and bragging about their dressmakers. In the hotel room, Mom would meticulously fit, plait, and fold the sarung in a very expertly javanese way, while complaining on how impractical the whole tradition was. Dad would pester Mom on how to wear his sarung, finally proclaiming that the gold belt he was supposed to wear on top of his red belt, was absolutely useless.
“The Dutch must have invented this so that the Javanese would have difficulty walking!”, he finally said, which was the silliest thing I’ve heard from him for a long time.
I was forced to squeeze myself into a corsette, which caused me agony of pain for two days. Men must have invented the corsette so that women would look slim, won’t eat much, and won’t breathe much. See, now I’m a narrow-minded feminist, that’s what corsettes do to you.
My hair was tossed and turned, the hairpiece fastened with a multitude of what felt like pins and needles, tons of hairspray went on. Tons of makeup went on, scary looking pieces of fake eyelashes, eyelash glue, eyebrow shavers, and lurid lipstick were forced upon me. The makeup artist would hear none of my pleas, allowing only for me to choose my own lipstick, thank god, in which I chose a pinkish-nude colour. The end result was surprisingly rather elegant, I’ve heard my uncle say that makeup artists usually put in a little bit of black magic in their work to bring out the beauty in people.
Anyway.
I began to wonder what my job was for the siraman, as that was my main purpose of going through all the fuss. My aunt at this point bustled in, apparently in panic because the claypot they had for the bride’s-parents-break-claypot ritual was not the right javanese-wedding kind of claypot. She then handed me a 13-page booklet of the ceremony, bidding me memorize all my parts and what I was to do. So, amidst a vapour of hairspray, I squinted at the book, eagerly trying to locate my name. I found it on one page, it said:
Pemasangan bleketepe dan tuwuhan dengan urutan:
Pemangku gati sekalian membawa bleketepe ke bukit candra dekat pohon cemara. Pemasangan bleketepe dan cengkir gading oleh ayah pengantin (cengkir dibawa dalam nampan oleh Sdri. Tiza)
There was nothing else. And I didn’t even know what the Javanese words meant.
Looking at my elegant, suffocating, hungry self in the mirror, I began to think about what my Dad had said about the Dutch.

I’m not going to Japan.
So I re-read a poem my friend Mova once sent me via sms in the middle of the night.
I had a hunch it would be useful someday.

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain but for the heart to conquer it.
Let me not look for allies in life’s battlefield but to my own’s strength.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved but hope for the patience to win my freedom.
Grant me that I may not be a coward, feeling your mercy in my success alone; but let me find the grasp of your hand, in my failure...