Mysteriously perturbed by the sudden multitude of blog entries in recent years dedicated to "the joy of" or "how to" or "why" read/write/travel. These entries will usually discuss at length how reading/writing/traveling:
- helps you "discover" yourself;
- makes you more empathetic;
- inspires you;
- takes you "out of your comfort zone, which is trust me a good thing";
- reminds you of the oft-forgotten "here and now".
The very use of the phrases "how to" or "why", implies that the said action is something that needs to be promoted, or taught, in order to be followed by a vast majority of people. Which further implies that the vast majority of people do not yet engage themselves in such action. Reading, writing, or traveling, is therefore a rare activity to most of the internet-literate mankind.
The author's motivations, stemming from that assumption, is that they wish the general public to be enlightened by their prior self-enlightenment. Or falling one-step short of that, they wish the general public to at least be aware of the author's self-enlightenment. It is a neat fall-back plan.
Consider the blogger who merely wishes to share his/her own amazing experience, without the noble intent of educating the unenlightened masses. They might share an anecdote, a sensation, a view in many words or few, attempting to just document that indescribable experience. They might post a picture, which could be one of those quiet scenic contemplative ones or could be the one where the author poses in it with shades and a dainty designer bag. The writing is usually very personal and inward, simply a projection of one's impression of the experience. At the very maximum you might find the words, "OMG it was amazing you should all come-here/ read-this immediately!", and it stops there.
On the other hand, "how to" posts and "the joy of" posts attempt to do more than share. It wants to be motivating and inspiring, treading heavily on thin ice before cracking and falling into the bottomless abyss of preaching. It assumes, perhaps unconsciously, that plenty of lost internet souls perceive reading or writing as something completely alien which they would never have known the feeling of, if they hadn't read the author's blog post. It first lays bare the "me" aspect of the experience, and then projects that outwards to the general "you", and how "you" will find joy and discovery and meaning and surreptitious moments, because "I" did.
If, for whatever reason, the noble plans to motivate are unsuccessful, the author has at least smugly dedicated an entire social-benefit post to describing what they've read/written and where they've traveled. That is the neat fall-back.
Nevertheless it is beyond reasonable doubt that these motivational posts are extremely popular, perhaps because it touches a personal nerve when the message is "you can do it too". No matter how banal and obvious the experience, it's as if it will not be fully heard until it is forcefully conveyed to you that "you can do it too". It takes the author off a high pedestal of cool experiences into a pretentiously humble ground in which the author is the same as everybody else because "you can do it too".
This is the gist of marketing, that founding of a general vein in which everybody can relate. But if you're not getting paid to promote reading / writing / traveling, then why would you indulge in such banal, commercial activity?
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Mansplained
My friend directed me to this blog:
Academic Men Explain Things To Me
The blog is full of contributions by female academics, researchers, and students who are frustrated that their intellectual prowess is unrecognized or snubbed by male counterparts. That he commented on her hair instead of her presentation. That he said the exact same thing she said five minutes ago but the professor praised his opinion instead. That he dared to explain in a condescending tone something that she was an expert on.
After the tenth post I became a little exhausted and started viewing posts at random. Something was off. I couldn't relate to any of them. But look how many contributions there are, hundreds! This was the inner-perspective of hundreds of intelligent and achieved women: bitter, angry. And inevitably, falling into the same trap of condescension towards their male coworkers.
I wondered if I had missed something all this time. In all the years that I have spent studying, researching, working professionally, and working independently, I have never once felt bothered by a frustrating situation of male bigotry. Not once. I have racked my brains and not found one. And this is Indonesia, the land where "Sexy Woman Caught in Hotel with Party Leader" can be an actual headline by a serious media publication, and some politicians make a career-defining milestone out of regulating the length of your skirt. Am I missing something?
Then I start to recall a few things that did make me frustrated, but for some reason I have never attributed these to male bigotry:
1. My early career in the government was short-lived because my boss was attracted to me, without my knowledge. From the beginning of the job, his stunningly beautiful wife launched a baffling personal vendetta against me, which I did not know the reason for until after I resigned and he made an inappropriate attempt on me. Throughout the job he would frequently deny me interesting projects I was capable of doing, simply because his wife was planning on attending and he didn't want to put her in a bad mood. I suppose if I were a male, or less attractive, this would never have happened. But if my boss were a more honorable man and his wife were a less insecure woman this would never have happened either.
2. At a party in Cambridge, I met a man from Portugal who decided to lecture me about the human rights crimes committed by Indonesia against East Timor. I politely listened and told him of recent developments after the downfall of Soeharto, admitting there was still much work to be done but there was more transparency and they are now an independent country since the referendum and there was the truth and reconciliation commission and etcetera. Suffice to say he was either drunk or uninterested in other people's opinions but his own, despite the other person being obviously well-informed. But I don't think it was because I'm a female.
3. As I was about to slice a tomato in my own kitchen, disastrous then-boyfriend Mr. Nine suddenly exclaimed, "Whoa! whoa! whoa! That's not how you cut a tomato! You could cut your finger doing that! Here, watch me do it." To which I was completely taken aback because I had been cutting tomatoes since I was in elementary school and had never so much as grazed my skin. Not for once did I think this was an example of male mistrust over female abilities. Nor did I think this was an example of chauvinist attempt to maintain male dominance in the relationship. I simply thought he was an asshole.
4. During my bittersweet glorious days of singlehood I had been frequently advised (often by my own mother, no less) not to display intelligence or academic achievements too much because it might "intimidate men". The discourse is still fresh and hot at the moment, with a recent medieval discussion I caught on twitter last week on the theme of "do men like smart girls?" The majority answered, "not a priority trait," and some men vehemently defended "smart girls as extremely attractive", and many women chirped in and said something in the lines of, "I'm smart and I can still be loving at the same time." A very puzzling discourse that wrongly juxtaposes "smart vs. attractive" and "smart vs. loving" and "smart vs. submissive" as if they were different sides of a dead coin that had no power to choose its own flipper. I still did not think that all this attempt to "dumb down women" was an example of male chauvinism. Rather I think it is a collective insecurity towards things they don't understand. Men have told me I am intimidating and women have told me I am intimidating. If they all demanded to be comfortable with me they would all be pressurizing me to be dumb, but they don't do that. The decision to be smart or dumb lies in ME, lies in whether I care that they are intimidated or not. And if I were desperately looking for a man in my life, I might be concerned about intimidated males. It so happens that I was not desperate and therefore I did not care and therefore I wasn't bothered.
Ultimately I have always been baffled by feminists, especially their eagerness to blame the male gender for all the injustices in life. I admit that there are situations of horror that I may not be able to empathize with, of women who are subjugated by their culture, religion, and society, who are banned from school, punished if they are raped, and stoned to death if they express their love for someone. The people who work hard to protect these women are admirably standing up to not just feminist values but also human rights values.
But female academics being bothered by "mansplaining" is a wholly different matter.
Academic Men Explain Things To Me
The blog is full of contributions by female academics, researchers, and students who are frustrated that their intellectual prowess is unrecognized or snubbed by male counterparts. That he commented on her hair instead of her presentation. That he said the exact same thing she said five minutes ago but the professor praised his opinion instead. That he dared to explain in a condescending tone something that she was an expert on.
After the tenth post I became a little exhausted and started viewing posts at random. Something was off. I couldn't relate to any of them. But look how many contributions there are, hundreds! This was the inner-perspective of hundreds of intelligent and achieved women: bitter, angry. And inevitably, falling into the same trap of condescension towards their male coworkers.
I wondered if I had missed something all this time. In all the years that I have spent studying, researching, working professionally, and working independently, I have never once felt bothered by a frustrating situation of male bigotry. Not once. I have racked my brains and not found one. And this is Indonesia, the land where "Sexy Woman Caught in Hotel with Party Leader" can be an actual headline by a serious media publication, and some politicians make a career-defining milestone out of regulating the length of your skirt. Am I missing something?
Then I start to recall a few things that did make me frustrated, but for some reason I have never attributed these to male bigotry:
1. My early career in the government was short-lived because my boss was attracted to me, without my knowledge. From the beginning of the job, his stunningly beautiful wife launched a baffling personal vendetta against me, which I did not know the reason for until after I resigned and he made an inappropriate attempt on me. Throughout the job he would frequently deny me interesting projects I was capable of doing, simply because his wife was planning on attending and he didn't want to put her in a bad mood. I suppose if I were a male, or less attractive, this would never have happened. But if my boss were a more honorable man and his wife were a less insecure woman this would never have happened either.
2. At a party in Cambridge, I met a man from Portugal who decided to lecture me about the human rights crimes committed by Indonesia against East Timor. I politely listened and told him of recent developments after the downfall of Soeharto, admitting there was still much work to be done but there was more transparency and they are now an independent country since the referendum and there was the truth and reconciliation commission and etcetera. Suffice to say he was either drunk or uninterested in other people's opinions but his own, despite the other person being obviously well-informed. But I don't think it was because I'm a female.
3. As I was about to slice a tomato in my own kitchen, disastrous then-boyfriend Mr. Nine suddenly exclaimed, "Whoa! whoa! whoa! That's not how you cut a tomato! You could cut your finger doing that! Here, watch me do it." To which I was completely taken aback because I had been cutting tomatoes since I was in elementary school and had never so much as grazed my skin. Not for once did I think this was an example of male mistrust over female abilities. Nor did I think this was an example of chauvinist attempt to maintain male dominance in the relationship. I simply thought he was an asshole.
4. During my bittersweet glorious days of singlehood I had been frequently advised (often by my own mother, no less) not to display intelligence or academic achievements too much because it might "intimidate men". The discourse is still fresh and hot at the moment, with a recent medieval discussion I caught on twitter last week on the theme of "do men like smart girls?" The majority answered, "not a priority trait," and some men vehemently defended "smart girls as extremely attractive", and many women chirped in and said something in the lines of, "I'm smart and I can still be loving at the same time." A very puzzling discourse that wrongly juxtaposes "smart vs. attractive" and "smart vs. loving" and "smart vs. submissive" as if they were different sides of a dead coin that had no power to choose its own flipper. I still did not think that all this attempt to "dumb down women" was an example of male chauvinism. Rather I think it is a collective insecurity towards things they don't understand. Men have told me I am intimidating and women have told me I am intimidating. If they all demanded to be comfortable with me they would all be pressurizing me to be dumb, but they don't do that. The decision to be smart or dumb lies in ME, lies in whether I care that they are intimidated or not. And if I were desperately looking for a man in my life, I might be concerned about intimidated males. It so happens that I was not desperate and therefore I did not care and therefore I wasn't bothered.
Ultimately I have always been baffled by feminists, especially their eagerness to blame the male gender for all the injustices in life. I admit that there are situations of horror that I may not be able to empathize with, of women who are subjugated by their culture, religion, and society, who are banned from school, punished if they are raped, and stoned to death if they express their love for someone. The people who work hard to protect these women are admirably standing up to not just feminist values but also human rights values.
But female academics being bothered by "mansplaining" is a wholly different matter.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Rain-unmaker
It rained hard, very hard, on Friday in the middle of December. It was one of those rare times in Jakarta when the rain flew horizontally instead of vertically. The lightning and thunder were so bright and loud they set all the car alarms off in unison.
It also rained hard on Sunday, but not as hard as Friday. Sunday was a gloomy grey sky spilling its unstable bowel in distracted drizzles. It lasted all day like a marathon pisser, muddying the streets therefore slowing the cars therefore jamming the city.
But the point is that in between Friday and Sunday, which is Saturday, my wedding day, the sun shined very very bright. This, too, lasted all day without so much as a drop of rain or a hint of cloud.
After attempting to avoid the boring trap of just gushingly "absorbing the meaning of it" (i.e. it's a good omen, etc.) and then pondering the numerous reasonable, scientific, or supernatural possibilities of how this could be, we came up with the most economic explanation.
You see, there was another wedding in the same building happening that night, except theirs was outdoors, in the pool area. From the looks of it, it was the kind of wedding featuring white pigeons and red roses and a white pouffy ballgown wedding dress and a groom's outfit so dapper and elaborate it was bordering on fabulously gay. I wouldn't put it beyond them to make every effort possible to ensure their pretty ensemble is not rained down on.
By social standards the most reasonable way to do this is to hire a pawang hujan, which I have been utterly incapable of finding a translation for other than maybe rain-doctor or rain-unmaker (a pun on the term "rainmaker" obviously, but having said that I've decided against using the pun because it refers to something unrelated to rain, whereas what we are discussing here is entirely on the subject of rain).
So, rain-doctor.
I recently found out there are two types of rain-doctor package deals available on the market. First, you pay premium (something like twice the normal price) but get your money back if it does rain. Second, you pay a cheaper price but don't get your money back if it rains. Given that the cheaper package would likely be an incentive for fake rain-doctors to proliferate (hypothetically assuming that there are "real" ones), if I were a customer I would pay premium.
I imagine the rain-doctor then checks the weather forecast first. Because obviously, if it is not going to rain, then he can just spend the day sleeping. If the forecast is rainy, he then proceeds to prevent it from raining.
This is amazing stuff. In all the text books, summoning weather (or dismissing it) is a godly power. And yet here they are, rain gods for hire. With two packages available, and maybe even a discount in the dry season. But wait, it is a little less exciting actually. Rain-doctors, not being gods, do not make the rain cancel its plans: they simply move it to another place or delay it. Ah. Mortals.
No one knows exactly how it is done, and perhaps if you are a customer you may not want to know what you paid them to do as long as it is done. Other high-end venues have cloud-dispersion lasers (I imagine they can also double as disco lights), akin to high-powered water-jets used to disperse labor demonstrations, or other similar party-pooper technology. But rain-doctors don't use technology. They push sticks in the ground and mutter chants and that's basically it.
Whatever the method, one thing for sure is that it is not cheap, hiring rain-doctor services. Unless you're free-riding on someone else's party rain-doctor.
It also rained hard on Sunday, but not as hard as Friday. Sunday was a gloomy grey sky spilling its unstable bowel in distracted drizzles. It lasted all day like a marathon pisser, muddying the streets therefore slowing the cars therefore jamming the city.
But the point is that in between Friday and Sunday, which is Saturday, my wedding day, the sun shined very very bright. This, too, lasted all day without so much as a drop of rain or a hint of cloud.
After attempting to avoid the boring trap of just gushingly "absorbing the meaning of it" (i.e. it's a good omen, etc.) and then pondering the numerous reasonable, scientific, or supernatural possibilities of how this could be, we came up with the most economic explanation.
You see, there was another wedding in the same building happening that night, except theirs was outdoors, in the pool area. From the looks of it, it was the kind of wedding featuring white pigeons and red roses and a white pouffy ballgown wedding dress and a groom's outfit so dapper and elaborate it was bordering on fabulously gay. I wouldn't put it beyond them to make every effort possible to ensure their pretty ensemble is not rained down on.
By social standards the most reasonable way to do this is to hire a pawang hujan, which I have been utterly incapable of finding a translation for other than maybe rain-doctor or rain-unmaker (a pun on the term "rainmaker" obviously, but having said that I've decided against using the pun because it refers to something unrelated to rain, whereas what we are discussing here is entirely on the subject of rain).
So, rain-doctor.
I recently found out there are two types of rain-doctor package deals available on the market. First, you pay premium (something like twice the normal price) but get your money back if it does rain. Second, you pay a cheaper price but don't get your money back if it rains. Given that the cheaper package would likely be an incentive for fake rain-doctors to proliferate (hypothetically assuming that there are "real" ones), if I were a customer I would pay premium.
I imagine the rain-doctor then checks the weather forecast first. Because obviously, if it is not going to rain, then he can just spend the day sleeping. If the forecast is rainy, he then proceeds to prevent it from raining.
This is amazing stuff. In all the text books, summoning weather (or dismissing it) is a godly power. And yet here they are, rain gods for hire. With two packages available, and maybe even a discount in the dry season. But wait, it is a little less exciting actually. Rain-doctors, not being gods, do not make the rain cancel its plans: they simply move it to another place or delay it. Ah. Mortals.
No one knows exactly how it is done, and perhaps if you are a customer you may not want to know what you paid them to do as long as it is done. Other high-end venues have cloud-dispersion lasers (I imagine they can also double as disco lights), akin to high-powered water-jets used to disperse labor demonstrations, or other similar party-pooper technology. But rain-doctors don't use technology. They push sticks in the ground and mutter chants and that's basically it.
Whatever the method, one thing for sure is that it is not cheap, hiring rain-doctor services. Unless you're free-riding on someone else's party rain-doctor.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Smiles
The latest comical installment to the wedding saga is when mother told me not to smile so wide at my wedding.
"What do you mean?"
"Just try not showing your teeth."
"Why?"
"Because it's not elegant."
"Really?"
"See photos of your friend's wedding in India. Her smile and demeanor was very elegant. She didn't have to look overly smiley and happy."
"She was also somewhat unhappy, Mom."
"But one can express happiness without having to be overly expressive about it."
"Sure. Okay Mom."
It goes without saying that I will show teeth at my own wedding. When she's not looking.
"What do you mean?"
"Just try not showing your teeth."
"Why?"
"Because it's not elegant."
"Really?"
"See photos of your friend's wedding in India. Her smile and demeanor was very elegant. She didn't have to look overly smiley and happy."
"She was also somewhat unhappy, Mom."
"But one can express happiness without having to be overly expressive about it."
"Sure. Okay Mom."
It goes without saying that I will show teeth at my own wedding. When she's not looking.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Satu iman
Not long after I met Mr. Right, I gave Mr. Ten a call to tell him that I had met someone and would like to give it a shot. He gushed the following expressions in approximate unison:
1. "Oh."
2. Respect and admiration that I had been honest at the outset
3. Full acknowledgement that we had never had "a conversation" about our relationship
4. "But my heart is melting a little."
5. "I guess it was only a matter of time"
6. A variety of praises on my virtues that he will always admire
7. Wishing me happiness
8. and, "Is he Muslim?"
The response was lovely and a little more.... heartfelt.... than I thought it would be, considering the relationship had seemed to be something more of the kind described by Sarah Vaughan when she sang "it was just... One Of Those Things", or in other words "too hot not to cool down". Response #8, however, made me laugh spontaneously.
It was the kind of classic question I should have expected from a militant atheist, but I couldn't decide whether the question was full of playfulness or full of bitterness. He knows that if I had a choice I wouldn't really care what religion I married into. He knows that I choose to comply with not having a choice.
He doesn't know that Mr. Right had a bitter fight with his parents over his ex-girlfriend's religion; and another bitter fight when his parents asked "is Stella a Muslim?". That he's read all the religious texts and decided they were all essentially leading to the same purpose; that he doesn't pray five times a day because he finds no peace in it and therefore no sense in doing it; that he believes faith is something sought and gained and experienced personally instead of swallowed from what preachers say and imposed on others; that he chose to be with me not because we are religiously compatible but because he thinks we are spiritually compatible; that he knows enough about himself to explain the above clearly, calmly, without frustration.
Mr. Ten didn't know these things and, really nobody would know or need know. But in this society of religious expectations and uniformity, on the surface of things I am doing it exactly by the book.
And so after I had finished laughing I answered, rather guiltily, "yes he is a Muslim."
1. "Oh."
2. Respect and admiration that I had been honest at the outset
3. Full acknowledgement that we had never had "a conversation" about our relationship
4. "But my heart is melting a little."
5. "I guess it was only a matter of time"
6. A variety of praises on my virtues that he will always admire
7. Wishing me happiness
8. and, "Is he Muslim?"
The response was lovely and a little more.... heartfelt.... than I thought it would be, considering the relationship had seemed to be something more of the kind described by Sarah Vaughan when she sang "it was just... One Of Those Things", or in other words "too hot not to cool down". Response #8, however, made me laugh spontaneously.
It was the kind of classic question I should have expected from a militant atheist, but I couldn't decide whether the question was full of playfulness or full of bitterness. He knows that if I had a choice I wouldn't really care what religion I married into. He knows that I choose to comply with not having a choice.
He doesn't know that Mr. Right had a bitter fight with his parents over his ex-girlfriend's religion; and another bitter fight when his parents asked "is Stella a Muslim?". That he's read all the religious texts and decided they were all essentially leading to the same purpose; that he doesn't pray five times a day because he finds no peace in it and therefore no sense in doing it; that he believes faith is something sought and gained and experienced personally instead of swallowed from what preachers say and imposed on others; that he chose to be with me not because we are religiously compatible but because he thinks we are spiritually compatible; that he knows enough about himself to explain the above clearly, calmly, without frustration.
Mr. Ten didn't know these things and, really nobody would know or need know. But in this society of religious expectations and uniformity, on the surface of things I am doing it exactly by the book.
And so after I had finished laughing I answered, rather guiltily, "yes he is a Muslim."
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
One Dress
Did you hear about the girl who ended up having four dresses on her wedding day?
Dress number one was all aglitter with sequins and crystals so dense that it could hardly be lifted by dainty bridal hands. But the Queen thought that the cutting was coarse.
Dress number two was full of delicate lace and breezy tulle that you could see the wearer's skin through its filmy gauze. The Queen lifted her chin high and ordered the dressmaker to have it ready in three weeks, but you never know with dressmakers. You just never know.
Dress number three was made of silk imported all the way from the land where Marcopolo was born, in a shade exactly three shades darker than white and two shades lighter than gold. But the Queen was so efficient, the fabric she bought was not enough to glide comfortably in.
Dress number four was made of silk the shade of exactly one shade lighter than gold. The Queen has not seen it. The dressmaker declared in all his wisdom and all the bright green he wore from the tip of his collar to the tip of his sneaker shoelaces, that this was the fabric of all fabrics.
"The Queen will just have to deal with it," thought the Princess.
Dress number one was all aglitter with sequins and crystals so dense that it could hardly be lifted by dainty bridal hands. But the Queen thought that the cutting was coarse.
Dress number two was full of delicate lace and breezy tulle that you could see the wearer's skin through its filmy gauze. The Queen lifted her chin high and ordered the dressmaker to have it ready in three weeks, but you never know with dressmakers. You just never know.
Dress number three was made of silk imported all the way from the land where Marcopolo was born, in a shade exactly three shades darker than white and two shades lighter than gold. But the Queen was so efficient, the fabric she bought was not enough to glide comfortably in.
Dress number four was made of silk the shade of exactly one shade lighter than gold. The Queen has not seen it. The dressmaker declared in all his wisdom and all the bright green he wore from the tip of his collar to the tip of his sneaker shoelaces, that this was the fabric of all fabrics.
"The Queen will just have to deal with it," thought the Princess.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Poetry
I went to a few poetry readings and have read out some poems a couple of times. They are becoming more frequent in Jakarta, which is a phenomenally good thing. But writing poems is not the same as reading it, is not the same as reading it out, and is not the same as listening to it being read out.
When I listen to it being read out I have a problem with accents. Accents intrigue me too much it is distracting. Instead of wondering what she means by "swooping gracefully, splattering gravity", I wonder why the roll of her "r" is implacable. The entire gesture of her voice imposes itself on me and forces me to wonder what she would sound like if I had a normal conversation with her. I become distracted by guesses on character and upbringing, I become unable to entirely enjoy the words.
Some poems lose their meaning when being read. There are phrases that you need to look at, and close your eyes, and look at again, and let it wash over you so that you can make sense of it, or make what you like of it. This cannot happen when you're listening to someone reading it once quickly through.
Some poems even lose their magic for me when being read. I was listening to Sylvia Plath reading out A Birthday Present yesterday, and I didn't like that her voice did not match the voice in my head when I read the poem years ago. I thought how surprising it was that she sounded more English than American, which led me to wonder whether Americans back then generally sounded less American than they do now; or whether that was just her husband's influence. She yearns for death but sounds harsh and stern. I thought she would sound broken and brave. But perhaps that is what is interesting - she doesn't yearn for death, she demands it. I wasn't entirely happy with how it messed with my existing imaginations. In any event, T.S. Elliot reading The Love Song is even worse. I suppose people are more expressive these days so it is unfamiliar and disturbing to hear the stiffness of the past.
What I do enjoy about the poetry readings I've been to is that nobody discusses the poems afterwards like I'm doing now. Because that would have been really boring.
When I listen to it being read out I have a problem with accents. Accents intrigue me too much it is distracting. Instead of wondering what she means by "swooping gracefully, splattering gravity", I wonder why the roll of her "r" is implacable. The entire gesture of her voice imposes itself on me and forces me to wonder what she would sound like if I had a normal conversation with her. I become distracted by guesses on character and upbringing, I become unable to entirely enjoy the words.
Some poems lose their meaning when being read. There are phrases that you need to look at, and close your eyes, and look at again, and let it wash over you so that you can make sense of it, or make what you like of it. This cannot happen when you're listening to someone reading it once quickly through.
Some poems even lose their magic for me when being read. I was listening to Sylvia Plath reading out A Birthday Present yesterday, and I didn't like that her voice did not match the voice in my head when I read the poem years ago. I thought how surprising it was that she sounded more English than American, which led me to wonder whether Americans back then generally sounded less American than they do now; or whether that was just her husband's influence. She yearns for death but sounds harsh and stern. I thought she would sound broken and brave. But perhaps that is what is interesting - she doesn't yearn for death, she demands it. I wasn't entirely happy with how it messed with my existing imaginations. In any event, T.S. Elliot reading The Love Song is even worse. I suppose people are more expressive these days so it is unfamiliar and disturbing to hear the stiffness of the past.
What I do enjoy about the poetry readings I've been to is that nobody discusses the poems afterwards like I'm doing now. Because that would have been really boring.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Entitlement
Here's a story I heard from a friend recently.
In the process of selecting underprivileged children to provide scholarships to, she came across a family with two children. The mother is a busker, a street musician; the father does odd jobs here and there. They insist on putting their kids into private school, which costs Rp.350,000 per month per child. They complain that they can hardly pay the fees.
"Why do you put them into private school? You do know you can put them into public schools free of charge, right?", asked my friend.
"We don't believe in public schools. We want our children to receive very good religious education, so that their religious values are deeply embedded. We hear the public schools are not very good about religious education," said the mother.
Over the course of the conversation, my friend explained to them the scholarship program and how they might become eligible for it. After listening to her intently this is how the father responded:
"As a Muslim, we must accept the intentions of those who wish to do good in the path of Allah."
My friend was taken aback and exasperated that he had the air of someone who was doing her a favor, with the fanciful wisdom of a saint. She saw him as an ordinary man with a lack of competence over his family's financial management. A family deluded into believing that religion can solve everything and magically guide them into making the proper decisions in life. A family who has squandered many opportunities on poor choices.
But there was more. There was this sense of entitlement, bordering on arrogance. Not to be confused with a peaceful and serene acceptance of their fate. Not to be confused with a humble gratitude of whatever life gives, no matter how small. Theirs was an attitude of being poor, therefore being entitled, to be on the receiving end of what God obliges the wealthy to give away.
Admittedly many of the wealthy are also arrogant. They expect their hands to be kissed (literally) and the poor to pray for their continuous prosperity / happiness. Happens every year during Ramadhan month at orphanages, overflowing with food bestowed on them by people who wish to reap 70 times more blessings by doing something good in the holy month. The little children are taught to kiss our hands and pray for us and thank us for the rice-boxes. The remaining 11 months at orphanages are dry and without event.
There is something very banal and commercial about the whole thing. Like a supply and demand of religious brownie points.
In the process of selecting underprivileged children to provide scholarships to, she came across a family with two children. The mother is a busker, a street musician; the father does odd jobs here and there. They insist on putting their kids into private school, which costs Rp.350,000 per month per child. They complain that they can hardly pay the fees.
"Why do you put them into private school? You do know you can put them into public schools free of charge, right?", asked my friend.
"We don't believe in public schools. We want our children to receive very good religious education, so that their religious values are deeply embedded. We hear the public schools are not very good about religious education," said the mother.
Over the course of the conversation, my friend explained to them the scholarship program and how they might become eligible for it. After listening to her intently this is how the father responded:
"As a Muslim, we must accept the intentions of those who wish to do good in the path of Allah."
My friend was taken aback and exasperated that he had the air of someone who was doing her a favor, with the fanciful wisdom of a saint. She saw him as an ordinary man with a lack of competence over his family's financial management. A family deluded into believing that religion can solve everything and magically guide them into making the proper decisions in life. A family who has squandered many opportunities on poor choices.
But there was more. There was this sense of entitlement, bordering on arrogance. Not to be confused with a peaceful and serene acceptance of their fate. Not to be confused with a humble gratitude of whatever life gives, no matter how small. Theirs was an attitude of being poor, therefore being entitled, to be on the receiving end of what God obliges the wealthy to give away.
Admittedly many of the wealthy are also arrogant. They expect their hands to be kissed (literally) and the poor to pray for their continuous prosperity / happiness. Happens every year during Ramadhan month at orphanages, overflowing with food bestowed on them by people who wish to reap 70 times more blessings by doing something good in the holy month. The little children are taught to kiss our hands and pray for us and thank us for the rice-boxes. The remaining 11 months at orphanages are dry and without event.
There is something very banal and commercial about the whole thing. Like a supply and demand of religious brownie points.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Scribble
They say writing is like bleeding, or breathing. They say a lot of crap that makes me feel bad about my writing because I don't feel like I write like I bleed or breathe. I have a life and friends and I don't always feel like bleeding/ breathing my thoughts out to survive the day.
I went to the Ubud Writers Festival the other weekend and went to see some talks. Jeffrey Eugenides was talking about how he wrote the Virgin Suicides over a span of three years, writing two hours every workday and three hours every weekend with a 9 to 5 job. He says inevitably that you will withdraw during the writing of your novel and come out at the end of it to meet people whom you haven't met in a few years, but they usually understand. I wouldn't mind disappearing from this circle for a few years but when I come back my career might possibly have bottomed-out.
I've read writers who encourage excessive sentences and writers who value brevity. I've tried both and don't see why they can't coexist on one page. I have trouble "bleeding/breathing" words and don't see why I can't just spurt out my words in painfully asthmatic spasms. I like a little bit of everything but not everything in its entirety. I would commit but only if I didn't have to sacrifice.
Also, artists and writers seem to have this obsession with extremity. Case in point: "I would commit but only if I didn't have to sacrifice". Who does that, truly? It is an over-dramatization of a tendency towards a certain character but is by no means the absolute reality of such character. Of course I have sacrificed before, who hasn't?
For the plane ride back from Bali I bought a book at the airport, the collection of surprising short stories edited by Neil Gaiman titled "Stories". My colleagues were with me, the ones I had separated from for one day so that I could go to Ubud and they could go do water sports. They made fun of me in a good-humored way, which I get quite a lot around here. It's very peculiar, although it shouldn't be peculiar to me because I am no different to them, supposedly. They see something they admire, something they think is beyond their capabilities or desires, and as a gesture of appreciation they make fun of it. They exchange furtive looks and declare that I am intimidating and point to the least attractive person in the group (by social consensus and by her own admittance) and laughingly tell her to follow my lead. She laughs and says, "even if I read a book I wouldn't be as beautiful."
One can only smile a baffled smile as if not understanding.
Which is phenomenally better than not having friends because they are too intimidated. In fact it is great. I get to be myself, and yet still be accessible enough to be an object of affectionate ridicule. I almost love it. But it is peculiar because on that airport row at the boarding gate with all my colleagues I was the only person with a book in my hand. Well of course they would think I'm different, which is ridiculous because having a book in hand is no different from having an iPad in hand whilst playing video games - in that it is simply something to chase away boredom and avoid meaningless conversation.
But of course it is different. An English novel full of words - who am I kidding? It also dawned on me that there were so so so few Indonesians at the Ubud Writers Festival. And a sea of caucasians in Eat Pray Love attire - linen shirts and exotic sarongs, all gobbling up the literary festivities with thirst and wonder. In the airport I almost felt guilty about holding a book, about choosing to ignore the world to be buried in my book. I almost felt anti-social, literally, the antithesis of my social surrounding.
I went to the Ubud Writers Festival the other weekend and went to see some talks. Jeffrey Eugenides was talking about how he wrote the Virgin Suicides over a span of three years, writing two hours every workday and three hours every weekend with a 9 to 5 job. He says inevitably that you will withdraw during the writing of your novel and come out at the end of it to meet people whom you haven't met in a few years, but they usually understand. I wouldn't mind disappearing from this circle for a few years but when I come back my career might possibly have bottomed-out.
I've read writers who encourage excessive sentences and writers who value brevity. I've tried both and don't see why they can't coexist on one page. I have trouble "bleeding/breathing" words and don't see why I can't just spurt out my words in painfully asthmatic spasms. I like a little bit of everything but not everything in its entirety. I would commit but only if I didn't have to sacrifice.
Also, artists and writers seem to have this obsession with extremity. Case in point: "I would commit but only if I didn't have to sacrifice". Who does that, truly? It is an over-dramatization of a tendency towards a certain character but is by no means the absolute reality of such character. Of course I have sacrificed before, who hasn't?
For the plane ride back from Bali I bought a book at the airport, the collection of surprising short stories edited by Neil Gaiman titled "Stories". My colleagues were with me, the ones I had separated from for one day so that I could go to Ubud and they could go do water sports. They made fun of me in a good-humored way, which I get quite a lot around here. It's very peculiar, although it shouldn't be peculiar to me because I am no different to them, supposedly. They see something they admire, something they think is beyond their capabilities or desires, and as a gesture of appreciation they make fun of it. They exchange furtive looks and declare that I am intimidating and point to the least attractive person in the group (by social consensus and by her own admittance) and laughingly tell her to follow my lead. She laughs and says, "even if I read a book I wouldn't be as beautiful."
One can only smile a baffled smile as if not understanding.
Which is phenomenally better than not having friends because they are too intimidated. In fact it is great. I get to be myself, and yet still be accessible enough to be an object of affectionate ridicule. I almost love it. But it is peculiar because on that airport row at the boarding gate with all my colleagues I was the only person with a book in my hand. Well of course they would think I'm different, which is ridiculous because having a book in hand is no different from having an iPad in hand whilst playing video games - in that it is simply something to chase away boredom and avoid meaningless conversation.
But of course it is different. An English novel full of words - who am I kidding? It also dawned on me that there were so so so few Indonesians at the Ubud Writers Festival. And a sea of caucasians in Eat Pray Love attire - linen shirts and exotic sarongs, all gobbling up the literary festivities with thirst and wonder. In the airport I almost felt guilty about holding a book, about choosing to ignore the world to be buried in my book. I almost felt anti-social, literally, the antithesis of my social surrounding.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Friends
Most of my life I've had a habit of being best friends with my romantic encounters because these guys are cool and supremely interesting and understand exactly what things I like. The girls, or maybe I hung out with the wrong girls, are always so full of drama and confusion and over-obsession with things that don't matter. So this is me being terrified that I will have no friends after I am married.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
One weekend
It was a weekend in Singapore with a girlfriend from the past. When we embraced each other at the airport we brought with us a suitcase of manners, languages, and stories that we had loved but had packed away to make it easier to go through life. We unpacked them and talked about past boyfriends, past parties, previous dreams, and how far or near we'd come.
She's still in the thick of student life. I stayed at her dorm and met her multinational friends and went to their parties. It was just like old times, but at a different place, with different people. I remember Mr. Eight used to say, "I'm too old for this" whereas back then I felt like I had just been born. Now I think I understand except that I refuse to say I'm too old for this. I'll call it something else. In Singapore I noticed things I never used to notice before. I disliked the flatness of her dorm room pillows. I disliked standing in a long line just to get free drinks. The music wasn't quite right and I had to get drunk to enjoy it properly. I threw up for the first time in 2 years, out of a cab window. The conversations were as interesting as they used to be, but could not live up to my memories of genuine love at a time and place when my friends were everything I needed.
Still it was different and thus better than most weekends. I bought a hot leather miniskirt on a whim. When Mr. Right came to pick me up from the airport I told him to stash it in his wardrobe because it would be no use taking it home for mother to see. He laughed and said, "do you know that most people start wearing the veil after they get married, instead of strip down?" He didn't ask me details of what I did that weekend. It is really good to be back.
She's still in the thick of student life. I stayed at her dorm and met her multinational friends and went to their parties. It was just like old times, but at a different place, with different people. I remember Mr. Eight used to say, "I'm too old for this" whereas back then I felt like I had just been born. Now I think I understand except that I refuse to say I'm too old for this. I'll call it something else. In Singapore I noticed things I never used to notice before. I disliked the flatness of her dorm room pillows. I disliked standing in a long line just to get free drinks. The music wasn't quite right and I had to get drunk to enjoy it properly. I threw up for the first time in 2 years, out of a cab window. The conversations were as interesting as they used to be, but could not live up to my memories of genuine love at a time and place when my friends were everything I needed.
Still it was different and thus better than most weekends. I bought a hot leather miniskirt on a whim. When Mr. Right came to pick me up from the airport I told him to stash it in his wardrobe because it would be no use taking it home for mother to see. He laughed and said, "do you know that most people start wearing the veil after they get married, instead of strip down?" He didn't ask me details of what I did that weekend. It is really good to be back.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Morality
The discussion on moral values has made me so sick to the bone that I seemed to have developed a mental immunity strain against it. It has reached a point where if anybody tries to sell me anything with the word "God" in it I will literally turn my ears off.
Listen to the preacher who tells us at the dawn of Eid that we must elect a political leader with the same religious faith.
Listen to the teacher who told his students that if they wish to travel far around the world, they must pray to God.
Listen to the mother who tells her daughter that if she desires to be successful in life, she must respect her parents, not as a a form of gratitude to the parents but as a matter of obedience to God.
Listen to the friend who advises her closest friend that the hardships of marriage are simply natural satan-wrought challenges that come part and parcel with every effort we make to become closer to God, including marriage.
The preacher did not speak of leadership. The teacher did not talk about hard work. The mother did not talk about unconditional giving. The friend did not talk about communication.
My entire being became a blank concrete wall which would absorb nothing. Imagine what this could do to the impressionable. It would result in a society that is happy in forgiving and accepting everything that life gives. Because they can leave the rest to God. They are all so arrogant and complacent with God's gifts.
Listen to the preacher who tells us at the dawn of Eid that we must elect a political leader with the same religious faith.
Listen to the teacher who told his students that if they wish to travel far around the world, they must pray to God.
Listen to the mother who tells her daughter that if she desires to be successful in life, she must respect her parents, not as a a form of gratitude to the parents but as a matter of obedience to God.
Listen to the friend who advises her closest friend that the hardships of marriage are simply natural satan-wrought challenges that come part and parcel with every effort we make to become closer to God, including marriage.
The preacher did not speak of leadership. The teacher did not talk about hard work. The mother did not talk about unconditional giving. The friend did not talk about communication.
My entire being became a blank concrete wall which would absorb nothing. Imagine what this could do to the impressionable. It would result in a society that is happy in forgiving and accepting everything that life gives. Because they can leave the rest to God. They are all so arrogant and complacent with God's gifts.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Comparanoid
I checked her out on twitter and read her bio, opened her timeline, scrolled down a bit to about two weeks worth of tweets. Nothing special except that she seemed to have good intentions. Nothing threatening.
But it is always the well-intended friendly women who are the most threatening. They work inwardly, embracing the joy of working, unsoiled by petty ambitions.
Later we fought a bitter war at the interviews and I gracefully admit a truce, if not defeat by a slim margin. It is true she was a threat by virtue of perhaps not intending to be one. She is now doing some exciting project which I always thought of doing but never got around to doing. I toss my head at this and message her my support. One must find joy in a world that is full of good ideas and activism.
But, and I ask you this, what must one do with that quick sting of jealousy?
As for me I have sat here and changed colors for the past hour like a malfunctioned chameleon. As my head starts to boil some ideas bubble up to the surface and demand to be manifested before someone else gets to it.
This, right here, is a thin line between embracing my passion and posing a threat.
But it is always the well-intended friendly women who are the most threatening. They work inwardly, embracing the joy of working, unsoiled by petty ambitions.
Later we fought a bitter war at the interviews and I gracefully admit a truce, if not defeat by a slim margin. It is true she was a threat by virtue of perhaps not intending to be one. She is now doing some exciting project which I always thought of doing but never got around to doing. I toss my head at this and message her my support. One must find joy in a world that is full of good ideas and activism.
But, and I ask you this, what must one do with that quick sting of jealousy?
As for me I have sat here and changed colors for the past hour like a malfunctioned chameleon. As my head starts to boil some ideas bubble up to the surface and demand to be manifested before someone else gets to it.
This, right here, is a thin line between embracing my passion and posing a threat.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Pulse
It is always dark and a little chilly at dawn. We sit hunched in a circle on our praying mats and, although it is too dark and I am too sleepy, their voices sound like their faces are glowing. Mom asks forgiveness and Dad giggles; it is a half-joking half-serious ritual committed consistently every morning. Dad nods encouragingly at Mom so that she can start leading the prayers - the Indonesian part of the prayers.
She chatters forth quickly, her pauses not delivered at the comas or semi-colons, but at the end of her breath. Dear God Almighty the most benevolent the most knowledgeable and the most. Forgiving please forgive our sins and the sins of our parents and the sins that we know of and. The sins that we do not know we have committed because we did not know and You are most. Knowledgeable Dear God and thank you we are grateful for all the blessings You have bestowed. Upon us...
The prayer goes on for 15 minutes. It is long and comprehensive. They say that when you pray for something you must be specific, so when people pray for a blessed life they leave nothing out. Not cars and holidays and worldly material, but blessing and forgiveness and health and clear visions and straight paths and, most importantly, "abundant fortune" - which humans can interpret as something material or something spiritual, but God would know best because He can read your soul and is Most Knowledgeable.
My boss quipped the other day during dinner, that we shouldn't pray too much lest God be weary. "Especially Muslims!", he exclaimed. "we multiply God's chores by five times every day!" I have that feeling when I am standing up by my office window looking down at the tiny cars and tiny people swarming by below. If I were God I wouldn't care about these ants. They are too many and too meaningless; and their problems are too petty. Unless I were inside them. One with them, part of them, each and every one of them. Then I would care but it would be less a matter of caring and more a matter of just Being. Pulsating like a vein.
At dawn I appreciate the glow of their faces as they perform these rituals they hold so dear. With a sense of urgency. As soon as the first calls to prayer can be heard, Mom urgently tells me to prepare. Quick! Quick! As if God couldn't wait. Dad's Arabic prayer and Mom's Indonesian prayer press upon me, forcing me to feel the calm that I should ideally be feeling instead of chilled and sleepy. They don't know that God is closer to me than my veins.
She chatters forth quickly, her pauses not delivered at the comas or semi-colons, but at the end of her breath. Dear God Almighty the most benevolent the most knowledgeable and the most. Forgiving please forgive our sins and the sins of our parents and the sins that we know of and. The sins that we do not know we have committed because we did not know and You are most. Knowledgeable Dear God and thank you we are grateful for all the blessings You have bestowed. Upon us...
The prayer goes on for 15 minutes. It is long and comprehensive. They say that when you pray for something you must be specific, so when people pray for a blessed life they leave nothing out. Not cars and holidays and worldly material, but blessing and forgiveness and health and clear visions and straight paths and, most importantly, "abundant fortune" - which humans can interpret as something material or something spiritual, but God would know best because He can read your soul and is Most Knowledgeable.
My boss quipped the other day during dinner, that we shouldn't pray too much lest God be weary. "Especially Muslims!", he exclaimed. "we multiply God's chores by five times every day!" I have that feeling when I am standing up by my office window looking down at the tiny cars and tiny people swarming by below. If I were God I wouldn't care about these ants. They are too many and too meaningless; and their problems are too petty. Unless I were inside them. One with them, part of them, each and every one of them. Then I would care but it would be less a matter of caring and more a matter of just Being. Pulsating like a vein.
At dawn I appreciate the glow of their faces as they perform these rituals they hold so dear. With a sense of urgency. As soon as the first calls to prayer can be heard, Mom urgently tells me to prepare. Quick! Quick! As if God couldn't wait. Dad's Arabic prayer and Mom's Indonesian prayer press upon me, forcing me to feel the calm that I should ideally be feeling instead of chilled and sleepy. They don't know that God is closer to me than my veins.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Questions
There's that book Oprah reviewed several years ago, which accidentally stuck in my mind for goodness knows why. I don't remember the title, but it was something in the lines of "questions to ask before you get married."
No idea what's in the book. But here are some questions he's answered on different occasions, which I'm listing down for the sake of making lists.
Q: "I don't want to have babies until reeeeeally later. Is that cool with you?"
A: "Sure. It's your body and your right."
Q: "I don't want to live in Jakarta forever."
A: "Me neither."
Q: "I would really like to have an organic farm."
A: "I would really like to have a brewery."
Q: "If we can't have babies for some reason would you mind adopting?"
A: "Of course I wouldn't mind."
Q: "If our child wanted to marry a non-muslim would you mind?"
A: "Of course I wouldn't mind."
Q: "If our child turned out to be gay would you mind?"
A: "I wouldn't mind. But I would be careful to protect him/her from our parents."
Q: "I refuse to force our child into a certain profession."
A: "I would encourage them into a certain profession so that they can rebel against it and find their own true calling."
There you go. I'm thinking of having the list registered at a public notary or appendixed to our pre-nup.
No idea what's in the book. But here are some questions he's answered on different occasions, which I'm listing down for the sake of making lists.
Q: "I don't want to have babies until reeeeeally later. Is that cool with you?"
A: "Sure. It's your body and your right."
Q: "I don't want to live in Jakarta forever."
A: "Me neither."
Q: "I would really like to have an organic farm."
A: "I would really like to have a brewery."
Q: "If we can't have babies for some reason would you mind adopting?"
A: "Of course I wouldn't mind."
Q: "If our child wanted to marry a non-muslim would you mind?"
A: "Of course I wouldn't mind."
Q: "If our child turned out to be gay would you mind?"
A: "I wouldn't mind. But I would be careful to protect him/her from our parents."
Q: "I refuse to force our child into a certain profession."
A: "I would encourage them into a certain profession so that they can rebel against it and find their own true calling."
There you go. I'm thinking of having the list registered at a public notary or appendixed to our pre-nup.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Losing fields
There is something about old people that make me feel small, despite their silence, their wrinkles, their poverty, their withdrawal from life.
This particular elder was a landowner. Was, because after we were done, he no longer owned his land. He needed the money. I got to see his land. Fields and fields of green rice sheaths bending and bucking gracefully with the wind. A symphony of rustles and whistles. A place where the world is too full to talk about, I thought.
"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other", doesn't make any sense."
- Rumi-
It was there that I understood what made me feel so small in the presence of that old man. His body was so, so thin, stooped forwards, his clothes hung off of him sharply, fabric folds plummeting from craggy bone-edges. But he held his chin up and looked us straight in the eye. He had dignity. If I had a piece of land that beautiful, and I knew my own hands made it beautiful, I would be proud as well. What could we do but purchase and destroy. We have nothing to be proud of.
He only spoke Javanese. Was he literate? I don't know. When he signed the papers his signature was awkward, slow, deliberate. It was so deliberate I could count how many u-shaped curves he made with the pen. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
They had their pictures taken, he and the new owner. Smiling at the camera. Decaying teeth and white teeth. It's probably just me, but he seemed a little smaller when he left with his hundred-millions.
I went home to bed and cried a little bit.
This particular elder was a landowner. Was, because after we were done, he no longer owned his land. He needed the money. I got to see his land. Fields and fields of green rice sheaths bending and bucking gracefully with the wind. A symphony of rustles and whistles. A place where the world is too full to talk about, I thought.
"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other", doesn't make any sense."
- Rumi-
It was there that I understood what made me feel so small in the presence of that old man. His body was so, so thin, stooped forwards, his clothes hung off of him sharply, fabric folds plummeting from craggy bone-edges. But he held his chin up and looked us straight in the eye. He had dignity. If I had a piece of land that beautiful, and I knew my own hands made it beautiful, I would be proud as well. What could we do but purchase and destroy. We have nothing to be proud of.
He only spoke Javanese. Was he literate? I don't know. When he signed the papers his signature was awkward, slow, deliberate. It was so deliberate I could count how many u-shaped curves he made with the pen. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
They had their pictures taken, he and the new owner. Smiling at the camera. Decaying teeth and white teeth. It's probably just me, but he seemed a little smaller when he left with his hundred-millions.
I went home to bed and cried a little bit.
Monday, June 25, 2012
On networking
It's been a while.
I entered the fray and scanned the vistas. The place was packed and, like all the trending places in Jakarta when they've just opened, felt like it wasn't in Jakarta. The girls were not overly pretty but were dressed up nonetheless in business dresses that are quite fashionable it seems at the moment. I was wearing a silk blouse and a loose tie, because I had felt like it when I left for work this morning. I forgot to wear my contact lenses too, so ended up wearing my big hipster glasses. Pangs of regret and insecurity, but I sallied forth into the throngs of savvy future-contacts nonetheless.
My first targets were a hit. One girl was from Peru and the other girl from Mexico. Perhaps I notice kindred spirits first and foremost, perhaps some maddening radar I had not realized existed beneath my ignorant skull. But they were of course lovely, happy, and charming. They made me want to talk about beaches and dancing, which of course we ended up talking about.
The next targets were old friends whom I knew from all sorts of places on so many different occasions but who happened to know everybody else on that one occasion. Default exclamations on how the world is so ridiculously small. One happened to be a colleague of Mr. Nine and we had a good laugh at how I used to date him. We both laughed wholeheartedly for reasons unclear to the other. Another offered me an exciting project, which actually rendered my official task for the night completed, much to my disturbance. What have I become if I join events to meet new projects instead of new friends?
The last targets were the business school types: one boyish young American, one fast-talking Indonesian Chinese with an American accent, one tall Chinese girl whose posture slunked in the sexy way that comes from having had a fourth drink and plenty of nonsensical things to say. We accused the American of not looking like the Hawaiian he apparently is, because he wasn't wearing a wreath of flowers around his neck.
The drunk girl put her arm around me before she knew my name and asked the American: "Is she your girlfriend?"
The American said, "No, she's not my girlfriend, and I believe she's engaged."
I laughed warmly and held up my telling hand. "She is engaged," I said. The girls tittered over how he noticed.
I felt charmed at how I felt charmed about being engaged. This was apparently a test that I had unwittingly bestowed upon myself tonight and only realized post-hoc. If I had been single it could have been a game that I had not played in a while. Would I miss it? As it turns out there were no awkward tugs at my heartstrings. I was actually longing for Mr. Right to finish his meeting and pick me up from that glitzy place.
They were apparently going somewhere else for the night and asked what I was doing. I told them I was waiting "to be picked up".
"You're waiting to be picked up? Girl you should do something about that ring if you hope to succeed in that."
We laughed like college kids and went our separate ways and now I don't remember their names.
I entered the fray and scanned the vistas. The place was packed and, like all the trending places in Jakarta when they've just opened, felt like it wasn't in Jakarta. The girls were not overly pretty but were dressed up nonetheless in business dresses that are quite fashionable it seems at the moment. I was wearing a silk blouse and a loose tie, because I had felt like it when I left for work this morning. I forgot to wear my contact lenses too, so ended up wearing my big hipster glasses. Pangs of regret and insecurity, but I sallied forth into the throngs of savvy future-contacts nonetheless.
My first targets were a hit. One girl was from Peru and the other girl from Mexico. Perhaps I notice kindred spirits first and foremost, perhaps some maddening radar I had not realized existed beneath my ignorant skull. But they were of course lovely, happy, and charming. They made me want to talk about beaches and dancing, which of course we ended up talking about.
The next targets were old friends whom I knew from all sorts of places on so many different occasions but who happened to know everybody else on that one occasion. Default exclamations on how the world is so ridiculously small. One happened to be a colleague of Mr. Nine and we had a good laugh at how I used to date him. We both laughed wholeheartedly for reasons unclear to the other. Another offered me an exciting project, which actually rendered my official task for the night completed, much to my disturbance. What have I become if I join events to meet new projects instead of new friends?
The last targets were the business school types: one boyish young American, one fast-talking Indonesian Chinese with an American accent, one tall Chinese girl whose posture slunked in the sexy way that comes from having had a fourth drink and plenty of nonsensical things to say. We accused the American of not looking like the Hawaiian he apparently is, because he wasn't wearing a wreath of flowers around his neck.
The drunk girl put her arm around me before she knew my name and asked the American: "Is she your girlfriend?"
The American said, "No, she's not my girlfriend, and I believe she's engaged."
I laughed warmly and held up my telling hand. "She is engaged," I said. The girls tittered over how he noticed.
I felt charmed at how I felt charmed about being engaged. This was apparently a test that I had unwittingly bestowed upon myself tonight and only realized post-hoc. If I had been single it could have been a game that I had not played in a while. Would I miss it? As it turns out there were no awkward tugs at my heartstrings. I was actually longing for Mr. Right to finish his meeting and pick me up from that glitzy place.
They were apparently going somewhere else for the night and asked what I was doing. I told them I was waiting "to be picked up".
"You're waiting to be picked up? Girl you should do something about that ring if you hope to succeed in that."
We laughed like college kids and went our separate ways and now I don't remember their names.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
On happiness
For a while it was bad and then good and then not so good. There is no single year that compares to that one year circa 2009-2010 when everything was always so good even when bad things happened. Not being sentimental. Just remembering that I too can feel alive and had felt alive for a sustained period. Alive despite the fact that everything was good.
In this country, in this city, in this room where I work and become distracted by my work from the interesting things that should be distracting me from work, I have lost a little something. Time, perhaps. Imagination, perhaps.
What's been happening lately? Not much, same old. They are burning books and banning mini skirts and jailing atheists and harassing lesbians and decrying sex education and attacking churches. The women don't want gender equality because it makes women smarter and leads to higher divorce rates. But everybody is still having sex and enjoying it, thank God. Everything good is a blessing from God, and everything bad is a result of our sins. Mr. Right seems to think that last bit is a little unfair and innately flawed. We think that the liberal-minded Indonesians are a silent majority but suddenly Kompas releases a poll that shows about 70% of respondents want a more conservative government. Well that's swell.
This country, according to a poll by The Economist, is among the world's happiest countries. I would agree because essentially, happiness is indeed the culture. It is not like in Russia where it is taboo to say you are happy because that would mean you have individual freedom to acquire happiness and who, in the name of dead communist warriors, gave you that right? No this is not like that. In this country you do not say you are unhappy, because that would mean that you are not grateful for what God hath bestowed upon thee.
"How are you?"
"Alhamdulillah, thank God, I am healthy."
"And your family?"
"Alhamdulillah, they are healthy too."
You see.
So, since everything good comes from God and everything bad is a sign of ungratefulness to God, everybody wishes to have more God in their lives, in every aspect of their lives, in their spiritual, physical, sexual, and political lives. And to take it to the next level, everybody wishes to have more God in everybody else's lives. My own mother laments and moans and complains. She worries that if I do not pray five times a day to God, how will she earn extra points to go to heaven if she is deemed to have failed to educate me in faith? And if I do not pray five times a day to God, how am I ever going to lead a happy life when God refuses to bestow me with blessings? It will be a tragedy of the worst kind, she warns.You will lead a miserable life.
I feel alive with anger and frustration and curiosity and the acute knowledge that I am happy of my own volition, even when I'm sick, or sinning. I would be a little happier if I could make something of this stored pressure, instead of review contracts.
In this country, in this city, in this room where I work and become distracted by my work from the interesting things that should be distracting me from work, I have lost a little something. Time, perhaps. Imagination, perhaps.
What's been happening lately? Not much, same old. They are burning books and banning mini skirts and jailing atheists and harassing lesbians and decrying sex education and attacking churches. The women don't want gender equality because it makes women smarter and leads to higher divorce rates. But everybody is still having sex and enjoying it, thank God. Everything good is a blessing from God, and everything bad is a result of our sins. Mr. Right seems to think that last bit is a little unfair and innately flawed. We think that the liberal-minded Indonesians are a silent majority but suddenly Kompas releases a poll that shows about 70% of respondents want a more conservative government. Well that's swell.
This country, according to a poll by The Economist, is among the world's happiest countries. I would agree because essentially, happiness is indeed the culture. It is not like in Russia where it is taboo to say you are happy because that would mean you have individual freedom to acquire happiness and who, in the name of dead communist warriors, gave you that right? No this is not like that. In this country you do not say you are unhappy, because that would mean that you are not grateful for what God hath bestowed upon thee.
"How are you?"
"Alhamdulillah, thank God, I am healthy."
"And your family?"
"Alhamdulillah, they are healthy too."
You see.
So, since everything good comes from God and everything bad is a sign of ungratefulness to God, everybody wishes to have more God in their lives, in every aspect of their lives, in their spiritual, physical, sexual, and political lives. And to take it to the next level, everybody wishes to have more God in everybody else's lives. My own mother laments and moans and complains. She worries that if I do not pray five times a day to God, how will she earn extra points to go to heaven if she is deemed to have failed to educate me in faith? And if I do not pray five times a day to God, how am I ever going to lead a happy life when God refuses to bestow me with blessings? It will be a tragedy of the worst kind, she warns.You will lead a miserable life.
I feel alive with anger and frustration and curiosity and the acute knowledge that I am happy of my own volition, even when I'm sick, or sinning. I would be a little happier if I could make something of this stored pressure, instead of review contracts.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
On beauty
At lunch today the friend I haven't met in a while commented on my relationship status and casually told everyone that a couple of his friends sent messages to him expressing dramatic heartbreak because of that relationship status. His wife then laughingly commented that when I dated the disastrous Mr. Nine, people messaged his ex to say, "are you suffering attacks of insecurity yet?"
The table turned to Mr. Right and demanded to know whether he knows he's got rivals. Mr. Right grinned and said he knew that from the beginning.
I'm starting to feel flattered and uncomfortable with the topic as it is not something I know how to respond to very well, except with good humor, which I manage. I am a little surprised, and if Mr. Eight were reading this he would probably protest and say, "No you're not surprised. You can't fool me."
Mr. Right would often say "I think you're extremely beautiful, but you don't notice that much."
Well it is a moot point to argue, because beauty is in the eye of the beholder and I have no business beholding myself more than I behold others. And how much I behold others!
I behold others to the point of distraction. I notice when they wear black soft-lenses to cover their black retinas because they do not believe that their black eyes are black enough. I notice when they wear fake eye-lashes to a wedding party and I notice how they do not look more confident than they usually are despite that extra mile, or extra centimeter of eyelash. I notice the bags the shoes the bags the shoes the bags the shoes the bags the shoes. They are not more beautiful.
I notice the tan line on the broad shoulders of a friend who loves to swim. I notice the ridiculously loud laughter of a friend lying in her sick-bed. I notice the little curls on a forehead which escape the straightening iron. I notice how the swing of your hip gives away the comfort level of your shoes. I notice a curious question delivered with widening eyes. These are extremely beautiful.
The table turned to Mr. Right and demanded to know whether he knows he's got rivals. Mr. Right grinned and said he knew that from the beginning.
I'm starting to feel flattered and uncomfortable with the topic as it is not something I know how to respond to very well, except with good humor, which I manage. I am a little surprised, and if Mr. Eight were reading this he would probably protest and say, "No you're not surprised. You can't fool me."
Mr. Right would often say "I think you're extremely beautiful, but you don't notice that much."
Well it is a moot point to argue, because beauty is in the eye of the beholder and I have no business beholding myself more than I behold others. And how much I behold others!
I behold others to the point of distraction. I notice when they wear black soft-lenses to cover their black retinas because they do not believe that their black eyes are black enough. I notice when they wear fake eye-lashes to a wedding party and I notice how they do not look more confident than they usually are despite that extra mile, or extra centimeter of eyelash. I notice the bags the shoes the bags the shoes the bags the shoes the bags the shoes. They are not more beautiful.
I notice the tan line on the broad shoulders of a friend who loves to swim. I notice the ridiculously loud laughter of a friend lying in her sick-bed. I notice the little curls on a forehead which escape the straightening iron. I notice how the swing of your hip gives away the comfort level of your shoes. I notice a curious question delivered with widening eyes. These are extremely beautiful.
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