Fret.

I don’t know how it began, but, I find myself not knowing someone as much as I’d like to know that someone. I had overestimated myself. Some people simply do not depend on other people to share their burdens of life. And suddenly I don’t know his burdens in life, let alone be there to help solve it.
And therefore I am useless.

essentials

I've graduated.



Now, on to the more important things. Bunaken was fabulous! Located just off the coast of Manado, what's important about it is not Bunaken island itself but a cluster of coral reefs nearby which we had to get to from Manado by a splendid white little boat which allowed me to sit at the hull with the wind in my face and the dark blue sea with glittering sparkles of sunlight like playful diamonds and the vivid blue sky with little cottons of cloud and mountain slopes decorating the horizon and later on the coral reefs viewed from the glass-paned boat with the whole city of rainbow coloured fish and lobsters and bright blue starfish which then compelled me to jump off the boat and dip myself into the clear blue sea to swim among the corals and fish. =) Perfect!

Dad just called me an “unemployed intellectual”. Yikes. That’s pressure in a lyrical way. However, approaching the end of my campus days, and hearing lots of stories about working life makes me appreciate the value of unemployment. Most definitely not material values. But Time. Controlling it. Subjecting yourself to leisures or pressures, to a glass of wine or a deadline, because you want to or feel the need to. Not because you have no other option. But that doesn’t make sense doesn’t it, because, theoretically, there’s always an option, innit.
*sigh*. Is there such a thing as “intellectually unemployed”?

And inevitably, football.

At 2 am an unlikely group of people gathered at the La Piazza to join the hundreds who were all watching the World Cup together on the big screen in the middle of the plaza. The surrounding café’s were all working round the clock to cater to this magnitude of an event. The unlikely group, btw, happened to be myself, with my parents. It never occurred to me that they would suddenly feel like watching footie with the masses. At 2-bloody-a.m. Admittedly our cable-TV, with its ESPN and Star Sports and whatnot, amazingly does not transmit the World Cup. Mum had a great time, possessing a moderate enjoyment for football. I, felt weird hanging out with my parents at 2am. Dad was only in it for Mum, and successfully persuaded us to split 15 minutes before the game ended.
Later on in the day Dad went typically contemplative.
He said: “It’s ironic that thousands can be so fanatic about another nation’s football team, that they would all gather in the middle of the night to watch. Everybody, everybody gathering in the big malls built over the empty grassy lands previously used by kids to play football.”
I did not have a response for that. Predictably, we are watching the finals at home tonight. We hijacked our maid’s antenna-TV.

rejection.

He approached my car with Jesus tucked under his armpit, skinnier than usual and covered in lacquer. With his other hand he waved about the other Jesus, equally skinny and shiny, outside my window. I waved my hand submissively and he proceeded to the next car in the traffic line. Amongst the billow and hum of steady fumes, in the few minutes before red turns to green, other sellers swarmed around to promote their ware. They specialize. One type of ware for every seller. Mini helicopters which could actually elevate for a few minutes before dropping dangerously close to my windshield. Crispy snacks which are allegedly fried in hot sand and allegedly non-cholesterol. Giant, footlong pencils which you could flexibly twist. Skeleton keyrings and hairy gorilla masks sold 5 months in advance of Halloween. A dazzling array of World Cup fever memorabilia. Playboy magazines, and Jesus.
And then of course, there are the others. The ware-less, beggars. Tiny barefooted children, their tiny baby siblings slung on their backs. Old women leading their blind old husbands through the maze of cars. Skinny muscular men strumming their broken guitars, or just clapping. I cannot feel sympathy for these men. The people in the cars usually have preferences. They, too, specialize. Some prefer the kids because they should be in school. Some give to the muscled men because they are annoyingly persistent. I prefer those who obviously cannot be productive. But it’s so easy to be apathetic, simply because one gets used to it. Even sympathy is a different thing from philanthrophy, the former not necessarily leading to the latter.
And so it was today that a blind man approached my car, befitting into my ideas of obvious unproductive-ness. But not this man. This man was selling bottled water, chilled despite the blaring heat. He’d press his hand on the window to feel whether it opened for him or not.
As it was, mine did. Howmuch?, I asked him and he told me the price would be 2000. I gave him 3000. Before he handed me the bottle he took the notes and felt them slowly around the edges, one, two, and three. He gave one back to me and said, “this is too much”. No its okay, I said, take them all. He shook his head and handed me the bottle with the 1000 note.
And he walked away to the next car, hands outstretched.

"Rome"

There are many roads to Rome, it’s true
And possibly I feel subdued
I’m humbled by the twists and turns
The overwhelming choices earned

But there are many ways to Rome, he’d say
Before you change your mind and sway
through Rio, Brazil, and Madrid, Spain
To see the world and back again

It almost seems like Rome is near
Though many paths, the goal is clear
Still, fears come greet me all the while
For life most perfect is, most fragile…

[for the complete, unabridged version please ask me very very sweetly ;p]

Thesis is like Soap.

You never really end up the way you had predicted from the start. Although this theory is dependant on how consistent, and how competent a scholar, the writer is, I would like to think that most writers don’t end stories up as planned. In the beginning there will be a sneak preview, the introduction of characters that seemingly lean towards a certain predictable tale. In the middle complexities and subtle nuances appear, frantically trying to steer the writer in other directions. If I were not a thesis writer at the moment, I would gladly yield. It would be the most natural thing to do, like when life throws hurdles at you and you simply flex, bend, and take an alternative route. In extreme moments, I feel currently my thesis is like a soap show, not merely tempted to steer off track, but to steer in and out, add and subtract characters, undergo extreme surprises, have affairs left and right, and voila… end happily.
But no… it must be boring and rigid. With the thesis, you must end as you had planned, because the professors hold you accountable for your plans. I so lack the privilege of a melodrama.

How sadly deprived.
In anticipation of a certain event tonight, I had spent a few hours of two days deciding on what to wear. Helped by mom, always so excited and intervening, I tried on thisandthat, even became a little adventurous. As if a holiday spirit had come over me, all I seemed to covet were girly windblowy skirts and beaded necklaces. So unlike me. And precisely why I completely failed, having discovered that I do not have enough resources to develop a holiday fashion within two days. How can people manage to match every bag with every shoe? It’s beyond me. My talents reacheth not this realm. I am humbled. In resignation I settled upon my usual simple look, elegant at best and quite boring. Assured myself, as Oscar Wilde has so eloquently stated, that ‘fashion is a form of art so ugly that it must be thrown out every three months’. Also quoting from Mies van der Rohe, that ‘Less is More’. Of course, I stoically ignore that neither scholars work in the fashion field. After much ado and psychological reframing of mind, I was finally content and set upon having a good time, fashion-oblivious. Only to be told that the event had been cancelled!

I am now wishing I had more quotes. :(

brink.

Today was my last exam at campus. No more exams.

Somehow it’s not as milestoney as I thought it might be. I need to graduate now, innit. And find jobs and important things to propell me through life. But right now Im thinking I need to paint my hair, grab a picnic basket (and iPod ;p), travel to Rio and take samba lessons. Will there be time somewhere in the adult life to do reckless things? What if I grow up? What if I never get to wear converse sneakers again? Worries which, undoubtedly, I will not be worrying about when I can afford to buy Manolo Blahnik… but the concept is terrifying. You wait your whole life to be mature and independent, and at the brink you falter.
How embarassing. But then again, I’ve got an ego the size of London, bf always says.
Too huge for me to flinch.

Life as Usual

They say.
Back to the piling assignments, to the traffic, to the rusty routine. For a moment you expect, without really thinking, that something may have changed. And yet nothing has. Not percievably.

Today.
Came early and at this time of year, at this age, you meet less friends at the campus café. They’re either gone and graduated, are doing internships, or slaving away in the library doing their Thesis. (Oops! I just said the “T” word. *shudder*)
But food is a necessity people cannot avoid, and so are friends…and so if you persevere long enough in the humid café, you would manage to meet a few fellow necessity-seekers. Today was a good day. I met a someone who just came back from a Euro-trip, someone who just came out of an internship at a VFF (Very Famous lawFirm ;p), someone who just got married, and someone planning to get married. As the stories unravel, the mind goes into overdrive. I could almost hear the “creak-creak” sounds of a CPU processing in there somewhere. Jigsaw pieces being put together. Plans. Shapes.
So I found that life is not so usual after all. It seems my todays are filled with thoughts about my Tomorrows.

Allow me to describe my breakfast, acquired after an hour of solitary walking and searching. I was intent on enjoying my last day here with the perfect meal. It finally came in the form of a bowl of udon, called *something something* and ends with “pukkake”, that is, if I can trust my hiragana capabilities.

Ordering is always fun. Armed with my Lonely Planet phrasebook, the conversation went like this:

Me: korewa kudasai… *pointing at the picture with the bowl of udon that I wanted*
Him: $*&#$%(@#$*
Me: wakarimasen… *with an apologetic bow*
Him: *using gestures this time* E… choisu… serecsion… co’…or… hotu ? (which, miraculously.. I understood to be a question of whether I wanted it cold or hot, there being a choice, or selection of either)
Me: Ahh… cold, err.. kudasai.
Me again: Soshite… wakame kudasai. (and to this he added a handful of gorgeous seaweed in to my bowl).

See. When it comes to food, no linguistic problems are a problem.

Anyways.
So the udon was served cold on a shallow pool of mild soy sauce. In its simplicity, the texture of the udon is enhanced, which, unlike most udons I have encountered in my life, is soft and chewy with a tinge of resistance, almost elastic. As he was preparing, he slipped a half-poached egg on top of the udon, half poached to perfection. A perfectly round egg held together with a translucent layer of white. But as you take your chopstick and pierce it, the yellow yolk comes out and melts into the noodles, coating it and adding another layer of texture to the udon. Scattered on to this mixture is wakame, spring onions, and wasabi, each ingredient adding a new zest. Not too much, retaining simplicity. Zen.
I then pour myself a cup of hot ocha, and settle down to a perfect moment in Tokyo.

New York was snowing :)

...and I tilted my head back, arms spread, mouth wide, and caught a drifting snowflake on my tongue.

Life is not just about...

It's like a page from chicken soup for the soul. Jessup is not just about winning. It's the process, the experience, the people you meet. The toil, the teamwork, the challenges you take.
And so the judges said, and told us to remember to have fun, because Jessup is so much more and so forth. And then they announced that we had lost. To Singapore. And the fact flew out of him and stuck on me like a thorn, just hangin' around, parasytical. And as humans we go through the usual humanic phases. A brave face, a hearty congrats; glued on in the spirit of sportsmanship, and pure ego. A suppressed tear, not so suppressed when alone. And then exhaustion, and a primitive survival instinct groping around for the positive things to stop the pain: The incredible fun. The victory against UK. Against Germany. Against Uruguay. The moment they announced we made the top 24 teams.
The rush. The process, the experience, the people you meet. The toil, the teamwork, the challenges you take. (and there goes the warm chicken soup, tasting slightly bitter)

JKT-SG-HKG-SF-DC

Perhaps sometime after we have arrived I will be focusing on feeling the rush. The uncanny calmness, the sudden tensity, the surging panic, the certainty that I will fail miserably combined with extraordinary confidence.
But for now I am just exhausted. Exhausted, cramped, dry, bloated, unclean, and unpretty. We have been travelling for... well, I'm not sure. Perhaps two days. We've crossed 4 airports, countless baggage checks, and a myriad of immigration officers. Friendly immigration officers, flirty immigration officers, hostile immigration officers, apologetic immigration officers, gay immigration officers (this is not prejudice! the guy was wearing make up >:o)...
And the Americans, they're funny. Strangers smile at each other in a queue. Say, "hello, how are you?". In a brief minute before boarding, before entering the plane toilet or before nodding off to sleep beside you in the cramped plane seats, they manage to tell you about their family, their favourite book, their plans for spring break, topped with an overbright "how are you?".
Amusing. And slightly intriguing.
Our final destination is getting near, and I can't wait to take a warm shower, and sleep on a warm mattress, while the winter is slowly dying outside.

of thoughts revealed

conjuring up the magic
delighting in the play
smiles and silly poems
borne and carried away

and words flip, fling, flit
like images in a book
passing quickly, pausing
catching her eye with a glint

oh, but everything now catches the eye!
a saturday of images
caught between the fire
and she, inside, smiles

the dreamees and the dreamers
whose life takes form and shape
images in the play
and she, crosses her fingers.

Tribute to JavaJazz Festival

It was like a playground, and it was a long time since I’ve felt so alive! Saw, by order: Andi Wiriantono, my feisty, hard-bop-ing mentor; Ello, because he gave me a three-day freepass; Bali Lounge, in which I was surprised to be amazed by the vocals of Tompi… can’t really blame the guy for his name; Chiarra Chivello, who made our heartbeats samba; Jeff Lorber, funky and upbeat; Daniella Schachter, whose chords are slightly reminiscent of Bill Evans; Bob James, collaborating beautifully with a Chinese orchestra; Raphael Gualazzio, who played with so much fun he made me laugh; and Hiromi, breathtaking and out of this world.
And what it all comes down to is Jazz. Pure and Unsimple :)

rage against the machine.

I'm completely jaded.
Say what you will.

100 Mbps.

The rain is peacefully droning outside, as the leaves humbly bow down to its transparent weight. These large glass walls are barely discernible, seemingly blending in with the weather. Amidst the rain Yo Yo Ma’s cello sends a quiver in the air, accompanying my thoughts as the kilobytes filter through my laptop.

The free, unlimited, kilobytes.

This hotspot-like haven is like a breath of fresh air to my sluggish, slow-provider infested life. And where, you may ask, is this utopic place? This saving grace in a city as user-hostile and corrupted as Jakarta?

It’s my new campus library! :)
God I love the new Dean.

It’s like this. When I’m calm I wonder why. When I’m nervous I wish I weren’t. At other times, I feel I haven’t done enough. But I don’t know what more I can do. I’d feel guilty about the little pockets of time I occasionally enjoy by doing nothing. But I also feel I deserve it and would go insane without it. When will this madness ever stop? But I have a sneaking suspicion I would miss it if it stopped.

... I should be more religious. *sigh*

It’s the perfect time of year
Everything set into gear
I’m so happy I ryhme
Prose just seems like a crime

And hence this light airy crap
Can be explained in a short simple wrap
To Washington again, how sublime!
To travel, and moot, and to shine! :)