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