"Graveling"...

...curiously enough, is the word that pops up fairly often somewhere in my head. ‘Tis the season for exams. Teez, tireless and whipsmart, feels defeated. Not so chippy. Not so sunny. And everybody else seems to be doing so well. You know how that is. You get by feeling, well… hoping that the scoring will be as unpredictable as it always is, or that I unconsciously wrote something amazingly brilliant and original out of sheer creativity, triggered by the desperate necessity of the situation. Highly unlikely, but you know how that is. And at night, in the ungodly hours of night I would fall asleep and wake, fall asleep and wake, sleeping guiltily, and waking sleepily... an assortment of haphazard books about me unmemorized. And last night when I slept (guiltily), I had the most beautiful dream. Never before. Amazing. And no, it wasn’t sexual. *so there*. I can’t help but wonder whether dreams really mean anything. *sigh*. Woke up, grudgingly, sleepily, with a most unpleasant shock, that ‘tis yet morning again, that the dream was just... a dream, and that the book remained sadly unmemorized.
So I gravelled through the day.
Oh, help.

Still sober, as it were
Abandoning the giddy rush
Of love, in a mood

a week felt like a year
Emerging, old and wise
Uncocooned

Thoughts are clear
Gravity, lying in Gratitude
Emotions subdued.

spoilsport

With a deceptively quiet aura, he calmly reached out, closed his palm around my bubble of a dream, and crushed it. In an eerily absent-minded way.

A day of misfits.

Cancelled badly-craved piano sessions, yet again, for an appointment. Spent the whole morning arranging the meeting. Turned down offer to visit my friend’s new born baby. (dear god my friends are having babies already).

As the day progressed, one by one people cancelled. The visitor’s flight was delayed. The meeting was rescheduled. The day was spent in vain.
So I slept, fretfully. Assignments could not be focused on. People had not done theirs. Nobody seemed concerned. I was impatient.

As I start to leave Mom would hold me back. Get me to eat first. Perhaps a motherly conscience set straight by the fact I do not leave the house unfed. Perhaps a reluctance to have me rush out again so soon. Perhaps just a habit.
She frets, fusses. I am impatient, late. Tense and cranky, I rush out.

I am the earliest to arrive. The rest, 40 minutes late. Not much to do, when the time comes no time to do. At 11pm boyfriend calls, still at work. As I spill my tired beans, his battery went dead.

The gentle lulls of consistency dampens the mind
Perfect. Darling, just perfect
Isn’t that nice?

The pulls and pushes
Of gravity, gentle as an ebbing tide
Rythmic, like his breathing

Boring, would you say? And impossible
To be this and this and that
at once, a package, sealed.

Carelessly I care less
Though perhaps I do
Well no, when it comes to you.

Tangle untangle disentangle.

On bright sunny mornings, such as this, waking up can be a prolonged pleasure.
Nowhere to go, some things to do, but not until later. Lay…ter.
A slice of sunlight warms my cheek. A fresh morning chill strokes my unblanketed skin.
Blurry thoughts emerge, unfold, untangle… in no particular hurry :)

Forty Winks

Sleep!
Oh sweet and blissful sleep
Two hours at best
It’s anybody’s guess
When next some winks I'll keep!

Beep!
Oh my alarm goes beep
I hardly had rest
In my comfy nest
Now to my feet I must leap!

Weep!
Oh how my poor eyes weep
They seek and quest
To be put at rest
But sleep just don’t come cheap! :(

unvalidated

"it's quite good"
"you could've been better"

my perfectionism is either going to make me or break me.

My heart is beating so hard I find it impossible to sleep. I'm afraid it will explode on me as I lie here. In which case I would die of internal combustion.
And it's not so much nervousness as it is excitement, anticipation.


For Jessup. God I am such a freak.

the subdued driver

First of all, every morning starts with eco-environmental guilt now. Fuel is expensive, toll-roads expensive. And then, current read being ‘the consumers guide to effective environmental choices’, I keep imagining the amount of emission I must produce in that 40 minute drive to campus. And back.

Second of all, I have a bad tendency to speed, out of pleasure. Today, having calculated the distance between the car I wanted to overtake and the car blocking my front, I swerved right, only to be forced to swerve left again because, apparently, the overtakee refused to be overtaken. *bastard*. Sandwiched between two cars by an inch, in the middle of two lanes, at 80 km/hour on the highway, I displayed my middle finger to overtakee, who calmly sped on. Then I thought well, it could’ve been my fault. Later on, I got caught in a lane-war with a bus. Being hateful of stopping behind busses, I sped up to squeeze into the lane the bus was trying to get into, a la previously-mentioned overtakee. But the bus elegantly shoved its butt in and grazed my bumper. The second time my middle finger displayed it’s futile self, but after some thought, it could’ve been my own reckless fault. Meanwhile, the fuel tank is low, again. *sigh*

Driving ain’t what it seems. It’s a friggin’ war out there, accompanied with all kinds of guilt.

Jakarta

Consume consume consume. With 10 new malls, there's not much else to do.

-------------------------------------------------

The smell invites a spark beneath the skin. The smell of the New. In addition, the sight teases the eye, ignites imagination. A perfect salmon pink top that drapes softly round the shoulders, could be perfect with the chocolate brown skirt that falls lightly, and cleanly, beneath the knee. Perfect for afternoon dates, and somewhere in my head a bubble emerges, depicting the scene of me, pretty in pink and chocolate. The eye scans the entire store, picking things up, pairing them. The sexy shoe with daring heels and a teasingly narrow strap that accentuates the bare skin beneath; the elegant clutch bag, its minimalism interrupted with a delightful detail of beads. Countless bubbles appearing and bursting at a dangerously tempting speed.
Tempting. Despite my usual inappetite for fashion.

I'm glad i can't buy everything i want, otherwise life would be boring ;p

Therapy

She’s afraid of darkness and silence. Combined. Afraid to hear things, or see things that aren’t supposed to be there. But if she sleeps with the lights on, she wakes up exhausted. Fear imprisons, heavier than her blanket, tighter than her bra-strings. Sleep a luxury she cannot afford.
She turns on Coltrane. Silence lifts its shroud. She imagines instead herself creating those notes; eyes closed, mind at rest. Fingers moving… moving, soul following, or the other way around she can’t really tell nor care. Believes it so well it’s like a memory that she recalls. Sharp then blur. Sharpens and then blurs again. Fingers tapping her blanket, long after her mind falls asleep.
She wakes up exhausted.
Smiling.

revenge is sweet

“Grey”, he thought, as he pushed through the haphazard array of people and wares at Mangga Dua, the epicenter for cheap shopping. Slam-down prices, they call it. The overwhelming sights and colours were overkill, churned together like a melting pot and leaving a distasteful grayish-ness at the bottom. He saw nothing he wanted. He only came to accompany Marla, who stood beside him now with an unmistakable glint in her eyes. Marla was animated, an excited, ready-to-bargain expression on her face, her lush hair tied defiantly high on her head and swishing merrily as they moved along. Wearily, he followed, squeezing through shop-keepers on either side, shouting and promoting their ware. Marla came to a halt at a tiny stall filled with cosmetics. He absent-mindedly gazed down at the dirty glass counter, rather interested by the subtle blends of colour the cosmetic makers had created. Reminded him of the colour palette he used in his last design for a pamflet order.

“Eyeshadow, how much?” he could hear Marla saying beside him.

“only 30.000”

“So expensive!”, she had an irritated tone to her voice. “Bring it down to 10.000”

“Can’t do”, was the reply, “that one’s an original. It’s really good. Good colour. I always use it myself.”

He looked up to see what the chinese shopkeeper was using. She was smiling, curved scotch tape stuck on to her eyelids to create a folding-eyelid effect when her eyes were open, and above that, her eyebrows were tattoed in a blue-ish hue over her original eyebrows. She wore red plastic earrings, two hoops on each ear. He couldn’t see any eyeshadow.

“25.000 is the best I can do”, she said, her eyebrows curving bluely at him.

Marla’s lip curled down slightly as she shook her head, took his arm, and marched off. A split second later, the shopkeeper had hailed them back and wrapped-up the eyeshadow Marla wanted for 10.000.

In good form today, Marla had told him, gleefully rubbing her hands together a short while after her seventh purchase, all of which he carried now. He now had a slight throbbing headache, and was about to gently suggest how the day was getting late. They were passing a narrow linking corridor, through which he could glimpse another vast space beyond, filled with stores and neon lights.

“Where does that lead?” he asked her, absent-mindedly.

“Oh electronics. Computers, stereos, you know. Boring stuff.” she replied, tugging at his arm towards a fake leather-bags store she had just spotted.

But she couldn’t. He had stood still. Turning around to face him, she opened her mouth to say something when she suddenly stopped. He was staring through the corridor with an odd glint in his eyes, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

“I think” he said slowly, a smile forming on the corners of his lips “that I could put your bargaining skills to good use”.

Mom.

fusses, tenderly
anxious
she questions
presses
pushes…
turns.

myriads of
misunderstandings
drawing, magnet-like
she sighs, hurting
stabbing…
knives, at conscience

scrambling
knowing my mind like
her omelletes
still
I sigh, understanding…
denying.

at night, at dawn
she prays
silent murmurs
drip, drop
like precious pearl but…
warmer

hair, hands
caresses
she frets, gestures complicating
ironically simplifying
loving…
Lonely.

Love makes you Fat.

Theories:
1. to love is to feel secure. To feel secure is to feel comfortable.
Physically as well.
2. to love is to make love. To make love is to feel sexy.
No matter how fat.
3. to love is to be content. To love is to be “taken”. To love is to not care about attracting other men.
4. to love is to go on dates. To date is to eat.
5. to love is to flatter, and be flattered in return. To love is to be blinded.
To love is to say, “Oh darling you have the most adorable baby fat”.

...inspired by a friend who gets fat (er) everytime she’s got a guy. Lol :D

I grabbed at the chance to escape, ironically provided by mum yelling at me that I hardly ever help around the house, and that no wonder my butt is so wide. Nice, I thought. So I took off and went upstairs to get the laundry. The rooftop was secluded, the sky a gloomy colour, a fretful morning breeze played at my thin hairstrands. Then suddenly, without warning, exhaustion came over in a rising tide. I stood for awhile staring at my colourful panties, dried, dancing in the breeze. Thinking. Maybe. Or just feeling the tide.
I can’t decide whether I’d rather stay home with her or away from her. Home--> constant guidance. Away--> freedom to try Life on for size.
I can’t decide whether I love socializing or not. Mostly I’m just trying to fit in with the world. Absurdly pretentious.
I can’t understand why I don’t understand. I thought everything was just a learnable skill.

My darling squeezes a tangle of thoughts out of my head, sorts them out, and looks at them with a concerned frown dead center of his forehead where his eyebrows meet.
“Have you found a solution?”, he asks.
“No…”
“Well let me help you…”, he says, tenderly, “I mean, let me google one for you.”

Caught me off guard, that one did. Immediate thoughts were:
- Men. Always offering solutions. *amused*
- It’s so soothing to know you could always rely on one voice of reason in a turmoil of emotion. Rather than some smart-ass who wants to look like they’ve got answers for everything. Whoops, sounds like me.
- I find it hard to dispute that Google’s got answers for everything.

A blog's birthday

“Happy first birthday, blog”
“Why thankyou Teez”
“A good year it has been, I hope?”
“Astounding I might say… inflected, just as it should be”
“Really, how so?”
“Paradoxical, more like it… quite bizarre”
“Elaborate!”
“Well, life would sometimes become so consistently interesting it no longer became interesting, and other times it would be so constantly boring it became quite amusing”
“Interesting indeed. Is that good or bad?”
“Good I suppose. The year started with a breakup and a failure, and is now… well the exact opposite you might say.”
“I see. Hey… umm don’t you ever feel… at loss of words… sometimes?”
“Yeah. But you should know that better Teez, you’re in love ;)”

And Teez, surprised at how blunt Blog’s sharp analysis was, could only turn away and blush.
*blush*

p.s.: welcome to the real world, young woman- everyday is a choice and each one defines you.

Funny. So many thoughts, so little time... and when the time comes the mind goes blank. Lost in the indescribable comfort, maybe. Like a warm blanket that quietens the voices in my head. It suddenly occurred to me this morning that it would be nice to stay instead. Spend a 5 month celebration here wrapped in comfort. What am i to do with these questions. With the voices continually asking, giving choices, offering opportunities. I need to talk. With you. I guess i'm not so self-sufficient after all. Funny.

domestic goddess

Of all the things I could do at home, I learnt cooking. Discreetly, so that people won’t actually notice. I’d sort of creep up behind my mom’s shoulder to see how much garlic she put in. On my way to the living room, I’d say “hi mom”, and cast a casual glance at her chopping board to see in which direction she cuts up the pumpkin. I’ve actually discovered that the amount of ingredients you put in has to be an odd number. 5 shallots, 9 garlic, and so on. But I’m not ready to succumb to superstition just yet. So a guest stopped by the other day, my aunt, for tea. Mom, out of the blue, suddenly asked me to cook up some Chinese green noodles for the guest. Shit, I thought. She either found me out and wants to put me to the test, or is just being plain mischievous. Poker-faced, I set about with the utensils like I’ve cooked Chinese noodles all my life. Boiled first, drained, then fried with a bit of garlic and soy sauce. Chicken slices for flair. Piece of cake. As the garlic started to emanate its amazing aroma from the bottom of the frying pan, I remembered I was reading something in my laptop which was far too interesting to be interrupted. I just had to check out that last sentence, just to make sure. Having satisfied my curiosity, I came back to the kitchen, where the garlic had turned brown, and its formerly heavenly, confidence-building aroma now had a slightly burnt tinge to it. The smell of failure. Still poker-faced, I threw out the burnt garlic, leaving the few remaining pieces of still-white ones, and delegated the task to mom, who was happy to take over. It turned out pretty okay, judging by the aunt’s polite ooh’s and aah’s. In retrospect, maybe I should’ve put in three cloves of garlic, instead of two.

Life in the metropolitan is tough. Was wondering if I should get that book, ‘a modern girl’s guide to life’. Have no idea what it contains, but the title suggests there might be something I’d be interested in. Not that I’m completely clueless in living a ‘modern life’, whatever that means, it’s that there are too many guides and references. Which to choose from, which to look upon as a standard? I wonder whether this is what’s usually referred to as being perfectionist. Because in order to compete, with all these professional people I encounter more and more frequently, you need to be a neat piece of package. I am personally of the opinion you have to be near-perfect. Why not? You don’t want to just go half way, you’d wanna go for the kill. Right? It’s fun really, keeps you grounded and striving for improvements. Keeps you dreaming of better things to come.
But I was playing piano today and it occurred to me that I’d never be a really good pianist. Simply because it’s not a priority. Sad isn’t it. I’m reminded of a quote by Bill Cosby: “I don’t know the key to success, but I know the key to failure is to try to please everybody”.

Apart from all that, tomorrow’s Saturday. Saturday’s are always worth looking forward to :)

Catharsis

it’s a breezy morning Sunday
lilies in the vases
fragrantly divine

t’was a comfy evening Saturday
smoothies and slow-dances
pleasantly sublime

t’was a heavenly with you day
stars, making wishes
beautifully profound...

The hoteru is tiny and cozy. They gave us yukatas to wear and wash towels with haiku on the packaging.

It`s a still life water color.
Of a now late afternoon.
As the sun shines through the curtained lace.
And shadows wash the room.

In the mornings we`d eat hot steamy udon and at night we`d drink sake in a carton box from the 7-11.
Kampaii.. !

Glimpses of Wow.

New York sunset ...


San Fransisco hill top ...


Tokyo dusk lights...

Subhanallah :)

sitting outside a sandwich deli on an odd pavement in DC where it's hotspot, frozen fingers doing its best to type quickly. Made it to the top 24 teams !! but lost against venezuela, beating us to the octo's. no matter... made it this far... and spring is coming ! will update from New York ;)

-sakura-

Now in Tokyo, transiting at Narita airport, where we're being delayed. Waited in the plane for two hours, then were told to get off because of technical problems and to wait another 3 hours. Gave us free soba to compensate, which i tried to enjoy to the fullest extent. Cold Cold and Fat now... too many snack in too short a time.
Engaged myself in conversation with a woman named Jo, so de ja vu somehow. American, almost bhuddist, voluntary fund-raiser for tsunami victims, does extreme horseback-riding in forests, has a priest for an uncle, and she actually told me the logical reason behind celibacy. Its apparently a very economical reason, nothing to do with religion. How fun!
Told me about a spiritual moment when she was in Paris, face to face with a real Van Gogh. In short, the best thing to come across in a foreign airport.
Will update from United States! ;)

a shoulder and a heartbeat

“Eh, Ibu Tiza.. !”, my mom would say as I trudge in through the door round midnight and kick off my pointy black high-heeled shoes, exhausted. Dad would tease me in the mornings as I sit beside him in the car, neat and legal savvy in my ironed blouse and skirt, he’d say the only thing I lack is the monthly paycheck! They’re amused with my stories, worried about my kuliah, and pissed with my weekend practices. “You’re trying to solve the world’s problems by yourself!” Dad had said once when I was in a last minute rush and did not ask his help. Checked me a bit, that one did. But what it all boils down to is this constant fluctuation, consistent yet not dull, scheduled yet unpredictable. Harsh, but supportive. Fascinating, and comforting; discovering that discovery of life…
And at the end of the day, I would get to kick off my heels and savour the contentment. And, if I’m lucky, I would get a perfect shoulder and a heartbeat to rest my exhaustion on, sneakingly, briefly. Come to think of it, it wasn’t so much to rest my exhaustion than it was to… express my contentment.
*smile*

The nice fat lady bade them a good holiday in Paris. The City of Lights.
And sure enough they found themselves on a Wednesday in Paris, in a little bohemian boulangerie.
The waiters spoke French, the menu was French, the music playing in the background was French, the very posters on the wall were French. But this did not intimidate them, did not make them uncomfortable. Because they were wise, or tactful, enough to know how to generate their own realm of comfort, by following a simple rule: When in France, do as the French do!
So they thought of twirling, of spreading their arms wide and spinning themselves to dizzying heights, releasing inhibitions with reckless abandon. But twirling is only allowed in Turkey.
They thought of doing a samba, where she could sway her summer skirt and they’d watch the sunset as it bleeds into the sea, turning the beach into an orange coloured spectrum, to match the colour of the walls in the little Parisian parlour where they sat. Or the colour of a parrot’s chest. But sambas are only allowed in Brazil.
No, the French do something else.
The French (bless their wine-filled souls) ... they fall in Love.

And so it was on that sweet little Wednesday, three days after Bob Marley’s birthday, two days after the Brazillian samba festival, and on the day of the New Year of Fortune, that they fell in Love. It was in Paris, in the city of Lights, that incidentally they felt exceptionally Bright.
It was the night that they became We... and they felt... Complete.

It resembles a blast.
That shoots you up bursting beyond the sky and through the stars.

Best Oralist !! WASHINGTON !! And he who has just ended his I and begun being You... It’s too perfect. I’ve never had so much fun in my life. And the preceding hard work, sleepless nights, and mental exhaustion, serves to enhance the end result, making it very, very...sWeeet.
And the best thing is that it doesn’t end there like most victories do. It’s just begun. A myriad of doors are open now, a million things to expect, a million things unexpected.
But, I could always start with Central Park, ducks, and cherry blossoms... =)


“what does the trophy say?”
“it says… I’m a very good oralist! I wonder how they figured that out…”
*laughs* “it must be the pout…”
“It must’ve been the pout. And the lucky charm.”
“It had nothing to do with luck. And you already have the charm.”



Jessup 2005

Did I mention my new year’s resolution?
To pay more attention to detail.
Whatever that means. In the widest, in every aspect of the word. From the general to the specific. From the crucial to the trivial. It sounds ambiguous and is ambiguous really, well at least when I decided upon the resolution I hadn’t got a clear grasp of what I intended to do, I just sort of thought it would be a good resolution for this year. For some reason. I just wanted, vaguely, to know details. I thought it would give me an upper hand. Surprisingly, the significance of it is forming by itself, in the first few days after the year’s start.
The people I meet, who have that extra added appeal because they can observe things that other people miss. The work that I do, which requires details to be scrutinized and makes no room for mistakes. A quote that I come across, told in the ungodly hours of truthfulness, that goes “what is an intellectual? An intellectual is a person who knows the details.”

No doubt, if I keep unconsciously being aware of this vague determination, signs and concrete examples of it will start filtering through, educating me, inspiring me, and ultimately shaping me. Theoretically. Well, empirically also. Unconsciously being aware? That’s such a paradox…
Anyway.
It’s the hardest thing. Or maybe I’m just exhausted. Physically, mentally.
Exhausted.