Karma Photograph

There were some certain things you would never see me doing.
Wearing a pair of leather pants, or coloring my finger and toe nails black (just like rock-stars), riding any motorcycle (because I can’t!), nor kissing my boss(-es) ass(-es), for instances.
There is a bigger chance for you to see me picking my nose on public places, or walking around naked in a room, than doing those things mentioned above.
Ha! Ha!

The list of Things I Wouldn’t Do grew longer each year because I added some new prohibited acts while I was still studying at the university. Included in it: confessing private stuffs to any member of my family (because he/she would use it against me while we argued, just like the one on scary nightmares prior to Christine’s death), lending any personal property to new friends I just knew (because that was how I lost my Dangerous Liaisons video and Great Expectations novel), and taking pictures with (any) actors, artists and celebrities.

Until I got my first job on a national TV station.
Friends and relatives often asked me why I didn't take pictures with the celebrities I’ve met, simply because I was working in show-business industry, which means there was a bigger chance to meet those so-called-artists (but-I-prefer-to-call-them-celebrities) regularly. Which was true, it happened on daily basis. In which I replied shortly, “I just don’t want to.”
The same questions popped up again these past weeks because they saw me on another national TV channel – broadcasted live weekly – sitting with some celebrities in this year Indonesian Idol contest.

Well, to tell you the truth, there was a personal reason for me to not doing so.
It’s because I was not really into the idea of idolatry, especially if those persons in concern were only working in show-business as performers.
I always keep in mind that: "Artis juga manusia!"
They become *special* only because people see them on television or movie screen. The ones you must give more respect are those who worked behind the scenes.
And the certain kind of celebrities I despised most are those who only showed up in gossip-shows and tabloids supporting scandalous shameful things I consider as personal stuffs you normally never want to disclose to others and would always fear other people find them out.

But here is a confession: the more personal reason that refrained me from taking pictures together with celebrities-cum-performers was the one that involved Tora Sudiro and Nadya Hutagalung, back in the time when I was still struggling to keep my first big job on that particular TV station.
The one I still remember as a bittersweet memory until today.

It was the first time ever I broke the 'anti-idolatry' belief I firmly hold on to before, in which during the course of events happened that particular week I ended up losing that first big job, even though the belief-crossing and job-losing actually had no positive correlation at all.
I just thought that that was my karma for crossing the said belief. Though I didn't (really) regret (much) the lost job (“it surely has other meaning which I didn’t realized back then”), but the one thing I kind of regret until now was the fact that I never had that “karma photograph” in my possession, the one in which we hugged so close acted as if we were both lovers, taken during breaks of shooting comedic sketches when I also acted as an extra talent in one segment.
One hilariously funny experience I will never forget.

As for now, I chose to take a more moderate position into the anti-idolatry issue.
And whenever there was any chance available, I would definitely seized it and took pictures together with certain famous people like Pramoedya Ananta Toer or Kylie Minogue or Cameron Crowe or Audrey Tatou.

Or Dian Sastrowardoyo. Not because I adore her that much, but simply because I just want to make my friends, and especially my brother, Matt, jealous and envy my luck.

Oh jolly cupcakes, on a second thought, will I ever call it luck?!



{ Original version of Karma Photograph was posted online under the title Karma Celebrities on my now defunct Friendster’s blog on June 22nd, 2005. Explanatory statement: at the moment of the original writing, Pramoedya Ananta Toer was still alive }

The Curious Incidents When Innocence Lost and Consciousness Regained in One Certain Weekend

Just look what you’ve done. You made a fool of everyone.
It seemed like such fun until you lose what you had won ...
(Jet, Look What You’ve Done)

You asked me what was the matter. ..

You left me without any healthy-logical option for keeping my own sanity other than to leave you temporarily, that’s what happened.

I allocated half of my time for you, instead you demanded me to sacrifice more, if not all.

You told me you need a friend who can fully understand.
I said you need someone who can accompany you in your extremely oscillating emotional roller-coaster ride.

You accused me of abandoning you in such mental wreckage, but you should have seen it coming by risking our friendship on the very first place for a very brief time of fun and sensation, and it was only on your side.

You asked me with tears streamed down your cheeks, why was I being so cruel to you, but you failed to see it from my point of view, that you’ve changed into a stranger I barely knew, someone whose mouth spoke of “a version of the truth” but the eyes sparkled with signs of obvious lies.

Once I took all your words for granted, but after that night in the club and the course of events that followed in that certain weekend, everything that came from you were viewed as nothing more but deceits.

Even though I reasoned this decision on the sake of my own emotional stability and my soul tranquility, it was hard for me to convey this plan to distance myself from you.

Nevertheless, I thanked you much for all the attention and time and help you had given me.

Until the better time comes for both of us to fix the damaged friendship, and for you to return back to the one personality I once familiar and felt comfortable to mingle with, I must ask you to find help from somebody other than me (much better from professionals).

And because I believe that my very presence around your life would contribute nothing to improve this unprecedented awkward condition between us, yet on the contrary will only deteriorate things furthermore, I must bid you a momentarily farewell ...

So goodbye for now, and good luck with your life.



{ Original version of The Curious Incidents When Innocence Lost and Consciousness Regained in One Certain Weekend was posted online in my now defunct Friendster's blog under the title of The Case of The Ex on December 9th, 2005 }

The Lottery

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2nd. But in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. And their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. Surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business. And people were sorry for him because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks."

The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. And when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves' barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans. With one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "And then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you Joe?" and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"

"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."

Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"

"Me. I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

"Horace's not but sixteen yet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."

"Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said, "I m drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."

"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"

"Here," a voice said and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet. Wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.

"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."

"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more," Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.

"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."

"Time sure goes fast,” Mrs. Graves said.

"Clark.... Delacroix"

"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. "Go on, Janey," and another said, "There she goes."

"We're next," Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand and turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

"Harburt.... Hutchinson."

"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said and the people near her laughed.

"Jones."

"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."

Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."

"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.

"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."

"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."

"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."

"They're almost through," her son said.

"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."

"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."

"Zanini."

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying, "Who is it?" "Who's got it?" "Is it the Dunbars?" "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."

"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"

"Be a good sport, Tessie," Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."

"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.

"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. “Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"

"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"

"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."

"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.

"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."

"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"

"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.

"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.

"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.

"There's Bill Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."

"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."

"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. And Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.

"Remember," Mr. Summers said, "Take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."

"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill Jr.. opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper, Bill."

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up and there was a stir in the crowd.

"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box.

Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."

Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands and she said, gasping for breath, "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.




{ It was an article written by Chuck Palahniuk in The Guardian Unlimited that evoked my curiosity to find this short story he mentioned as the primary example for his 'cycle of horror' model theory. "The Lottery", and some other great American short stories, that is posted above can be found here }

How Do You Keep The Passion Flowing?

Remembering back episode of Oprah when she invited Tony Bennet to come over and then sing with some notable guest stars such as Michael Buble, Carrie Underwood and Josh Groban, I was quite amazed to find out that according to Mr. Bennet's self-confession, that at the age of 80, he doesn't own a home nor a driver's license, yet he is so happy and content with his life.

His secret, at least that was what he claimed in the show, was that he kept his passion and creativity flowing constantly with two activities he loves most : singing and painting, painting and singing.

I wonder if I could be at least half as happy as him when I reach half of his present age?

Oh, I am so 'envy' of him!!


< How Do You Keep The Passion Flowing? was originally posted online on Wednesday, 5 September, 2007 2:21 PM >

Reminiscing "Janji Joni"

It was when I saw cameo appearances of Tora Sudiro and Winky Wiryawan in Janji Joni back in a couple of months ago that gave me the beginning idea of this writing. To me, both of them looked pretty much convincing as ideal poster-gay-couple: fashionable gorgeous looking hunks whom seemed completely falling into each other.

The audiences laughed very hard when Laki-Laki Urinoar 2 bit his fingernails in such a cute way while asking Laki-Laki Urinoir 1 with a particular look on his face, "Did you already find the one you really love?" (or a question similar to that, I kind of forgot).

And that was when suddenly Diane, while holding my upper arms whispered, "Hey, it's just like what Freddy did to you yesterday, don't you think?", then she laughed in such a way that made me blushed.

Thank God it's dark inside the theater; otherwise she could see my reddened face.

I think it was the awkward situation inside the men’s room, or maybe Winky's facial expression when he looked at Tora that reminded Diane about that particular scene the other day.

It was Freddy's 29th birthday, he of a nice funny good-looking guy who I kind of suspected of liking me. He didn’t plan any party or celebration, but I still went to his place, accompanied by Diane, to congratulate him and wish him everything nice will happen to him. He’s the kind of guy who already has everything a man’s need (and what I mean by that is credit cards, cellular phones, a car and an establishment not necessarily have to be a house), so I didn’t bring him any present. Or in other word, my practical mind told me that all I have got to do was presenting me in front of him.
Because he kind of likes me, right?

When he showed up at the front door, Diane did just like what any other girl does to her friends while congratulating them on something: hugging and kissing them lightly on both cheeks.

After that, it was my turn.
Freddy still spreading his arms widely, just like a teddy bear waiting for a big hug.
I thought, "Oh, okay, it's not a problem, just make him feel special for today."

So I went to hug him and kissed him lightly on both cheeks, and he went on as far as squeezed me closely and lightly and said, "Thank you, dear."
If you could see Freddy's sparkling eyes that moment, I believe you will think the same way as I did that time, that he seemed to enjoy hugging me much.

As I turned around to see who stood behind him, I saw that Laetitia, Freddy's closest best-friend who happened to be there standing within arms reach from us while we were making that scene, looking at us with such a surprise look upon her face.
I remember her jaw hung open in amazement.
Maybe she couldn't (or refused to?) believe what she just saw.
And when I turned around to face Diane, she did support the same mimic on her face.

Freddy started blushing and giggling nervously, and knowing that I should *neutralized* that situation, my only response to Diane - and Laetitia - was like, "What?! Is there anything wrong? Don't tell me you girls never see two guys hugging each other before?", and then I started to walk away from the door.

Felt a bit embarrassed with my emotionally-panicked response to Diane and Laetitia, but never regretted the hug and kisses I gave him.
I know Fred likes me, based on his gestures all this time.
And somehow I do as well, though in inexact same sense.

I believe there is nothing wrong in making someone who likes you feels happy and joyful, even though what you do is only to give hugs and kisses.
Spread the love and make others happy, is there anything wrong in doing so?

No one ever mentioned Freddy’s birthday-wishing scene again until today (with the exception of me with this writing!), but every time I see Janji Joni poster and related items from the movie I’d smile to myself and thought, "Boy, what a scene you and Fred caused back then!"



< Reminiscing “Janji Joni” was originally posted online under the title of "Janji Joni" and What It Would Forever Reminds Me of ... on June 22, 2005 >

"I do not love you ..."

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

I do not love you ... is a poem written around 1950s by Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, as the 17th Love Sonnets in his Cien Sonetos de Amor.

As far as I can remember, I never really like or understand any poem, not even my own which I wrote when I was still in middle school as a part of Bahasa Indonesia class’ assignment (mine was about an insomniac guy who suffered from chronic depression and decided to hang himself to die – reminiscing of it now, well, no wonder I hate it back then, and even still).

However, things changed after I watched Il Postino, an Italian movie set in the 1950s when Pablo Neruda was exiled to a small island in Italy and befriended with a local guy name Mario Ruoppolo who became his personal postman – thus came the title of this beautiful movie.
Neruda tried his best to explain what poems are all about – as similes and metaphors – to his new friend : by explicating to him that that’s where the beauty of them lay, on not in the literary meaning but in the comparisons of things.

I browsed the web searching for Pablo Neruda after watching this movie, and found the sonnet cited above. Originally he wrote it in Spanish, and I didn’t find any piece of information as who translated it into English. However, the 17th Love Sonnet still mesmerized me; it captured my attention and was so absorbed by it, I wrote a copy of it in my scrapbook which I always bring everywhere when I was still studying in university.

I could say for sure that I fell in love with that specific sonnet, not knowing that it was also used in a movie.

Inspired by what Mario did with one of Neruda’s poems he found in the poet's house – he used one it to attract a beautiful girl he loves long before Neruda set foot upon the tiny Italian fishing village – I did almost the same.

Almost, because I wasn’t quite sure that I love this girl who lives in a boarding house a couple of blocks away from mine, but was very curious to find out what would happened if I pretend to her and her friends that I like her.
Out of sheer curiosity.
Perhaps, this insincere act I am about to tell you below was driven solely by all of her friends whom told me that she had a crush on me.

Knowing that her 20th birthday is just around the corner, I called her pretending that I wanted to talk about some things. Later before we ended that conversation, she invited me to come over to her room the next evening.
So I prepared an Il Postino novel, written by Antonio Skármeta, and inserted a small Harvest card on which I wrote the “I do not love you ...” sonnet.

We chatted for about an hour before I presented her my gift. She was surprised and seemed very contented with the book, telling me that she just watched the movie she and her friends rented on VideoEzy the weekend before. Of course, I deliberately failed to mention that it was supposed to be an ahead of time birthday gift instead of a casually surprise one.
Flipping through the pages, she eventually found the card and read it. I noticed how her expression changed while reading it but unable to guess what she felt that moment. All I can say was that I sensed everything was gradually changed into an awkward situation. To make the long story short, my visit ended in half an hour later.

I held myself from contacting her until a week after her birthday, pretending I forgot it. When I finally met her that particular evening, she looked and acted normal to me, as if nothing awkward ever happened a fortnight ago. During our brief met-up, she never mentioned anything about that night. And when I finally asked her if she already read or even finished the book, she told me she got loads of assignment from her professors and couldn’t find time to read it. And then we just continued talking about everything else but that book. Especially not that small card written with Neruda’s 17th Love Sonnet.

It has been almost eight years since that particular night. I haven’t heard anything from her after I moved into Jakarta four years ago. But last year when I met Renee, one of her closest friend which also happened to be mine, she told me that when she met that girl a year before, she still asked about my wellbeing. And from the way she talked to me, I even sensed that Renee also knew about that particular card which I gave to her friend.

I didn’t understand her (reaction) back then. And now I know that I still do.

All I know for sure is that I still wish that someday I will find a special someone that I love much to whom I can read that 17th Love Sonnet in our special moments, and to feel its true intended meaning each day, and to share its beauty together in our lives.

Titi Nginung dan Nostalgia Piala Dunia

Bermula ketika aku menyaksikan partai perdelapan final antara Italia melawan Korea Selatan di putaran final Piala Dunia 2002. Kagum rasanya melihat permainan cantik tim Italia yang berusaha tanpa henti menggedor pertahanan tim Korea Selatan yang stamina para pemainnya pantas diacungi jempol. Meskipun ada sedikit rasa kecewa melihat kasarnya performance para pemain Korea Selatan, yang bisa jadi disebabkan oleh tekanan mental dari para supporternya plus tekanan sebagai tim tuan rumah. Wasit yang memimpin permainan pun rasa-rasanya ikut bertindak kurang adil dengan cenderung memihak pada tim tuan rumah.

Saat menyaksikan papan elektronik pergantian pemain yang diacungkan oleh salah satu ofisial untuk memberitahukan kepada wasit ketua bahwa Del Piero ditarik keluar dari lapangan, tiba-tiba terlintas dalam benakku sederet angka : 22-1-19. Kira-kira deretan angka apa ya?

Yap! Aku ingat sekarang.
Bukan, deretan angka itu tidak ada kaitannya dengan judi togel yang angka kemujurannya ditentukan dari Singapura.

Deretan angka itu mengingatkanku pada sebuah novel olahraga yang sangat menarik karya seorang penulis bernama unik, Titi Nginung. Novel yang kupinjam dari perpustakaan distrik dan kubaca ulang hingga lima kali (!!!) selama 3 tahun masa SMP. Novel yang membuatku sangat penasaran untuk mencari tahu karya lainnya dari mba’ Titi. Sayangnya, saat itu tak kutemukan satupun karyanya yang lain di deretan buku kategori bacaan anak dan remaja.
Tapi aku ingat novel Opera Jakarta yang pernah diterbitkan secara berseri oleh harian Kompas, dan resensi adaptasi filmnya sempat kubaca dari majalah Hai zaman baheula, saat isi Hai masih lebih berbobot dan jauh lebih ilmiah daripada yang sekarang.

22-1-19.
Saat aku membacanya untuk pertama kali, entah mengapa aku merasa ’terguncang’. Dan sempat sampai sangat mempercayai isi novel itu sungguh-sungguh terjadi. Bahwa semua hal yang disebut di dalam novel tersebut dapat (atau bahkan sudah pernah) terjadi dalam dunia olahraga Indonesia. Novel ini sungguh-sungguh mengaduk-aduk perasaanku.

Namun pada saat itu aku belum diizinkan membaca Opera Jakarta karena kata kakak-kakakku yang hobi membaca dan kemudian ’menghasut’ ibuku agar melarangku untuk membacanya, isi cerita yang terkandung di dalam Opera Jakarta itu tidak layak kubaca sebelum dewasa. Sebelum aku mencapai 17 plus.
Jadilah aku cuma bisa membaca 22-1-19: lagi dan lagi dan lagi.
Dan semakin pula aku terpesona pada gaya bahasanya, caranya bertutur, dan ’kejujuran’-nya (atau barangkali lebih tepat: ”keliaran” imajinasinya).

Rasa penasaranku diperberat oleh kemisteriusan sosok seorang Titi Nginung, yang di dalam pengantar novel terbitan Gramedia tersebut, identitasnya dirahasiakan. Menjadi sangat samar.

Hingga di awal dekade 1990-an, aku mendengar selentingan kabar mengecewakan dari kakakku bahwa Titi Nginung di-’breidel’. Katanya karena ada permintaan tidak resmi dari salah satu institusi pemerintah negeri ini. Titi dilarang berkarya lagi. Buku-bukunya tidak lagi diberi izin untuk dicetak, meskipun tidak berarti lantas harus ditarik oleh Gramedia dari pasar.

Aku masih ingat bahwa saat itu merasa sangat kecewa, karena hanya sempat membaca 22-1-19.

Hingga kemudian satu hari aku menemukan Opera Bulutangkis di salah satu rak di perpustakaan SMU-ku, tertumpuk di antara deretan buku menguning dan berdebu dalam rak di pojokan yang mendapat status tidak resmi: ”buku tidak laku”. Novel tersebut di-display bersama sejumlah buku yang saat itu (hingga kini) menjadi bagian dari sejarah terlupakan dalam khazanah sastra Indonesia.
Mungkin sekarang kalau diingat-ingat lagi, rasanya berlebihan. Tapi saat aku menemukan buku itu, rasanya begitu penuh semangat yang meluap-luap.
Saat itu juga buku itu kubawa ke counter untuk dicap. Dipinjam. Pertama kalinya setelah hampir lima tahun! Demikian yang sempat kuperhatikan dari stempel penanggalannya.

Setibanya di kamar siang itu, buku itu langsung kubaca dengan penuh perhatian. Nikmat rasanya. Kedengarannya aneh? Memang.
Seluruh perhatianku benar-benar tertumpah pada buku itu sejak kubaca baris pertama. Konsentrasiku tersedot. Dan jantungku terus berdebar membaca petualangan si tokoh utama yang orang Jawa dengan nama yang tidak kalah uniknya dari nama si pengarang: Bajang Kirek. Nama yang eksotis. Meski sebenarnya dikisahkan pemberian nama unik tersebut berkaitan erat dengan latar belakangnya sebagai seorang putra Jawa yang dibuang oleh keluarganya.

Imajinasiku melayang, mencoba mempersonifikasikan seperti apa kiranya sosok Bajang Kirek dalam kehidupan nyata.
Ah, barangkali dia seperti Icuk Sugiarto di tahun delapanpuluhan. Atau Joko Suprianto. Karena saat itu, tahun 1995, mas Joko sedang berjaya sebagai pemain top Indonesia. Dan di tingkat dunia.
Di mataku, sosoknya tampak begitu sesuai dengan karakterisasi fisik si jagoan bulutangkis dalam Opera Bulutangkis. Orang Jawa dengan prinsip hidup yang kuat. Dan sama sekali tidak ganteng :-P

Berdebar sungguh jantungku (swear! ini beneran!) membaca pertarungan antara ”Mas Joko” melawan si Super Robot yang diciptakan dan didesain agar menjadi jago bulutangkis nomor satu dunia.
Yang di kemudian hari membuatku berpikir bahwa Titi Nginung justru seakan-akan telah meramalkan pertarungan serupa antara Deep Blue melawan Garry Kasparov. Sekian tahun sebelum peristiwa bersejarah itu benar-benar terjadi di dunia olahraga catur.
Kagum, begitu maju dan ’liar’-nya imajinasi seorang Titi.

Sekian tahun berselang dan kini, di tahun 2002, kembali nama Titi Nginung mencuat dalam memoriku. Diiringi serangkaian pertanyaan mengganggu :
Siapakah sebenarnya Titi Nginung?
Mengapa hanya sedikit novel yang ditulisnya?
Benarkah isu bahwa dia di-’breidel’?
Mengapa karya tulisnya tidak pernah diterbitkan lagi?
Di manakah bisa kudapatkan novel Opera Jakarta?

Dan ...
Apakah dia masih hidup?




{ Artikel orisinil Titi Nginung dan Nostalgia Piala Dunia pertamakali dipublikasikan online pada tanggal 24 Oktober 2002 di situs Penerbit yang kini sudah tidak aktif. Setelah artikel tersebut ’terbit’, barulah beberapa penggemar buku menginformasikan kepadaku bahwa sebenarnya Titi Nginung adalah nama pena dari Arswendo Atmowiloto }

Do You Love an Apple ?

Do you love an apple?
Do you love a pear?
Do you love a lady with curly brown hair?

Why yes I love him, I'll never deny him,
I'll always love him 'till the day that I die

Before I got married I wore a black shawl,
But after I'm married, I wore bugger-all
But still I love him, I'll never deny him,
I'll always love him 'till the day that I die

He stands on the corner, a fag in his mouth,
His hands in his pockets he whistles me out
But still I love him, I'll never deny him,
I'll always love him 'till the day that I die

Do you love an apple?
Do you love a pear?
Do you love a lady with curly brown hair?

Why yes I love him, I'll never deny him,
I'll always love him 'till the day that I die




< Do You Love an Apple ? is a classic Irish folk song which was popularized at present times by Rufus Wainwright. This lyrics above was posted online at first in my previous blog on March 4th, 2005 >

The Last Days of Judas Iscariot : a comment on play

"The only person who needs forgiveness is the one who doesn’t deserve it"


A controversial play by Stephen Adly Guirgis, The Last Days of Judas Iscariot, is a courtroom drama set in fantastical purgatory where Jesus’ New Testament betrayer, Judas Iscariot, is on trial. It wants to deliver the idea that even if Judas is guilty by earthly standards, there is a divine mercy that transcends justice.

Giurgis' method is to summon biblical and historical witnesses to argue the case for and against the catatonic Judas. Caiaphas the Elder is shown to be as morally reprehensible as the accused in handing Jesus over to the Romans. Mary Magdalene affirms that Judas was always Jesus’s favorite disciple. Of course, Judas is found guilty, but the final, moving image is of Jesus washing His betrayer’s feet.

The Last Days of Judas Iscariot is a play about the possibility of goodness. What Giurgis is saying is that we live in a wretchedly imperfect, hate-filled world in which the law is an instrument of revenge : beyond that, however, lies a vision of redemptive mercy.



< The Last Days of Judas Iscariot was originally posted online on March 3rd, 2005 >

Superman Returns ... Who Cares?

Watching Superman Returns (2006) reminded me of the basic personal reason(s) as why - for all these times - I can not enjoy superheroes movies.

This latest Superman installment directed by Bryan Singer and written by Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, showed serious deficiency of real emotion, romance, and most of all, logic (as you can read here, here and here).

I sat inside the blackened theater for two and 1/2 hours and forced my mind to concentrate fully on that movie, and unsurprisingly somehow along its way, it successfully numbed my mind for the rest of that night.

Gosh!
At least Poseidon had something quite entertaining to offer its audience in its first forty minutes.

Too bad when Parker Posey, often dubbed as queen of indie, finally got her part in a major studio's summer release, she ended up as a comical character with such ludicrous name like Kitty Kowalski whom has such IQ of mexican jumping bean, an immaterial role that would surely going to be easily forgotten by movie-goers worldwide. Sigh!



< Superman Returns ... Who Cares ? was originally posted online on July 3, 2006 >

The Way I Feel Inside

Should I try to hide the way I feel inside my heart for you?

Would you say that you would try to love me too?
In your mind could you ever be really close to me?
I can tell the way you smile
If I feel that I could be certain then I would say the things I want to say tonight . . .

But till I can see that you'd really care for me
I will dream that someday you'll be really close to me
I can tell the way you smile
If I feel that I could be certain then I would say the things I want to say tonight . . .

But until I can see that you'd really care for me
I will keep trying to hide the way I feel inside




[With all due respect to The Zombies and Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou]