Goodbye is for everything, everyone.

In the end of everything, there must be goodbyes. I am counting the days to say goodbye to things that have been so familiar to me this past two years. And not just things, but off course, people too. For example, all the trams and their bell sound, train, pathways, streets, buildings, trees. Or some people from the early days, whom I couldn't be in contact with anymore for some classic reasons: busy. Or people from the second period, it is the distance that hindered me to meet them. For the next and the last ones, contacts are still pretty well maintained.

Soon I should say goodbye to everything, everyone, here.

I have learned to manage the bad feeling of saying goodbye since I were a small kid. When the cats and the dogs you loved were gone for various reason, you just have to continue your life. I mean, you would wake up in the morning, realizing that you wouldn't hear their voices again, or see them again, not even the tail or the grin you have been familiar with. They've just gone. Don't exist anymore in your sights. But then you have school lessons to think of, other friends to play with, your papers and pencil colors to play with, problems to solve, etc. Always there is something else come after that, that you need to wok it out. Therefore the goodbye is bearable, and naturally, absorbed in time. Some wisemen say, 'time heals', and I can't agree more.

Or, when brothers and sisters and me myself must be separated for studying in other island. Either they left you, or you left them, is as difficult to bear. But then days come and go. You learned to manage the sense of loss in the first days or weks. But then you started to step the ground realistically: there's not so much you can do about it: they left, you left, what can you do about these facts? Only one: focusing on things forward, and not backward.

That is, consequently bring me again to what I called the importance of perspective, as I mentioned earlier in previous post about why I enjoy elevations. I recall everytime I move from one city to another, from one place to another, the hardest and the most important moments are when the plane is taking off and starting to fly. When I see the city from such elevation. I usually notice a building, or paddyfield, or sea, or trees I recognized. They are getting smaller..and smaller..and smaller..until they vanished from my sights. Then the stewardees start to announce about the elevation, the meals, the entertainment, etc. Then I start to think about the new place I will come to and what I should do. Then I feel better. Hardly there is regret about what have been left behind. Because I believe time cannot be moved backward. It is moving forward. And whatever hard I cry or regret, nothing will ever ever change.

When someone dies, it is the hardest thing to manage. Because, you know, when they're dead, it means you will never see them again in the real life. Death is a no no separator. No one can jump over the barrier between the deaths and the alives, unless God Himself. So when you look at the face of the loved one for the last time, it is really really hard to manage the feeling that you'll never be able to look them again that way in this life. Thanks God, His promise, is the only thing I can hold on to in this situation: that all of us will meet again in the land, a better land than this Earth. It is in His land, it is in His House, the eternal house for our spirits where there is no more goodbye, where there is no more sorrow, where there is no more tears, where there is no more deaths, where there is no more concept of 'time' as we know.

Then I suddenly remember this song that has strengthen us so much when we had to say goodbye forever to my father:


There’s a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling place there.

In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blessed;
And our spirits shall sorrow no more,
Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.

In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

To our bountiful Father above,
We will offer our tribute of praise
For the glorious gift of His love
And the blessings that hallow our days.

In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore;
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore
Words: Sanford F. Bennett
Music: Joseph P. Webster

The dark side of imagination

A chilly afternoon in this city. Seven degrees only. I went with Judy to Tim Burton's exhibition at ACMI, Federation Square. We have to pass a long queue to be able to observe an enormous number of pictures, sketches, statues, moving images, cartoons, costumes, replicas, etcetera.

I realized, time and time again, that most of the genius are introverts. They live, to some exent, in their own realities. They imagine things, sometimes, or most of times, different, almost deviant, from others' thoughts and imagination. It's clearly obvious from the life of Tim Burton too. His imagination has particular characters. They'r dark, they're gothic, sort of creepy and sadistic. Baby pinched with nails, corpse brides, sound monsters, Joker, Mad Hatter and everything else that are beyond 'normal people' imagination I suppose. And he sold them well. The company did.

I also realize that people do enjoy darkness, deep down under their unconsciousness. I, for instance, liked to play on the cemetery long time ago. Looking at the 'valley of the death' when the sun set raised a feeling of helplessness as a human being. Reminded me of the end of our profane being in this world. 'Cause all men die, -as James Blunt sadly sang.

I personally don't really like these gothic, creepy stuff. But I was curious to find out how's the creative process was conducted actually. From sketching on the piece of paper up to the moving image production. How the creative process took place in the beginning. And how it touched people emotionally. Exploring their own darkness side of self. A message of bitterness and mockery I smelled from Mr. Burton's work. By leaving all the 'normalities' and sentimental feelings behind, he twisted around with realities. 'Till we, the audience, see the light again, 'till the screen rolls down, and we wake up, and realising that they're just creatures from someone else's imagination. That they're just unreal.


Note: To check his works, his official website is: http://www.timburton.com. The picture in this post was taken from the flyer.

The end of an era.

The university era has come to an end for me this month, July 2010. Papers and thesis have been submitted. Results have been released. Walking down the isles of the libraries triggered a different feeling. Different senses than the ones that I perceived when I was in rush for finishing those academic papers. They were emptier than before. Winter break it has been. It was a chilly evening, the mercury stood between 9 and 10 degrees. Jumping off the tram at Stop 11, I found the pathways emptier. The trees along the pathways are bare, more than the last time I recalled, which only a week or two away from now. Mere empty branches, leaveless. Winter has took them off of the trees.

I reckoned that the cafes close earlier. Came at 4.30 and the staff of Professor's Court cafe were folding the chairs and closing the sliding glass door, preparing to close it. The taste of the muffins are still familiar, and so do the chai latte.

They looked different to me now 'though. Never knew why, I sort of looking at replicas ("a replica is a copy that is relatively indistinguishable from the original, which are a copy used for historical purposes, such as being placed in a museum", according to Wikipedia). Or artefacts perhaps. They're fading away from my memories. I felt like the curtain of the cinema is rolling down, starting to cover down the main screen of my part of life here, if my chunk of life here is illustrated as a movie, with stories and plots, laughters and tears, food, travels, lunches, dinners, celebrations, seminars, rains, hails, flood, drought, fires.

I don't know why, I always have a strong feeling of time as a linear process, the feeling that I always move forward, not backward, and defnitely not static either. Everytime I move from one city to another, there's always been the sense of 'closing and opening curtain'. In between, there have always been series of adjustments, famliarization to the new work, places, senses, smells, crowds, speed, temperatures, traffics, markets, skies, and the peoples, most of all. And likely, when all things were way too familiar, too established, too settled, I started to smell a sort of, boredom, a weariness of sameness. Losing of challenges. City's dynamics turned into statics. Familiar routes to and fro work place started to look like the same page of book that I read over and over. So did the job. The page needs to be turned to the next. Moving. It is hard to be a sedentary creature*, indeed.


Note:
*definition of sedentary: "remaining or living in one area, as certain birds; not migratory", from www.thefreedictionary.com)

"Don't be offended if I give you some money"

The world as we know (and at least, as we read on papers and screens), is the world lack of compassions, exceedingly greedy, where everything is calculated, valued and monetized with price tags. The habit of calculating everything, widely discussed in an intriguing way in Freakonomics by Stephen Levitt (2005) for instance, seems to be the most common and acceptable human ways of deciding any actions and decisions. The main idea is that incentives is the root of all human actions.

This is where I find it difficult to match some 'uncommon' acts of mercy and compassions. What if people do something good simply because they think it is good to do? Not because of the incentives from superior, peers, nor because of any financial incentives? I don't suggest that people who do this have been extinct, but in our contemporary politics at least, this idea is way too hard to perceive. It is almost impractical. Many researches were conducted to find out whether a regent really did all good policies because he/she simply wanted the best for his/her citizens, or because she/he was moved by political and economical incentives?

I suddenly recall a small debates we've had in our small office few years ago. While we analyzed why a particular regent issued a pro-poor policy that did not seem to give him a significant political reward, a colleague inquired us to find what is the incentives he might have gained through that, or what was the driving force/motive of his action. Other colleague stated that it's because the regent is widely known as a kind person. As simple as that. Way too simple it looked odd. The other colleague contended that it is (nearly) impossible for one to do such things without a beneficial incentives in my mind, be it financial or political. Two people with two different way in approaching and examining a good action. That debate I found substantially important as a reflection and an interesting topic to explore human beings' diversity in general.

It is common to find that when someone is being kind to others, the kindness is often abused, because kindness, true and sincere one, is of the rare commodity. It is easy to exploit, since the doer mostly does not realize that he/she is a rare creature, a sheep in the wolves' world. Or else, it is hard to perceive, therefore it is always being seen cynically as a 'no such thing as free lunch' approach. What if the free lunch is truly for free? Chances are, if the doer did this, he/she thought that it is a normal way to do things. But most people will find it odd, and do an action that 'normal' people would do: grateful in a calculated manner: giving money, giving a price tag to the kindness action. In normal language, it is a symbol of grateful. However, in the doer's perception, that is not necessary at all,since she/he did that for his/her own pleasure, for the joy of giving, of doing good and right things.

That is when you did something you think is just normal, and people who you did good thought of replying your kindness financially. Knowing that you are not the type of person who thinks of it in a financial and incentives-motive way, people who you did good usually inform it to you politely: "Don't be offended if I give you some money". What will you do next?

caption: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Freakonomics.jpg

Paintings in my mind (2)

Today I attended European Masters' painting exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria (NGV). These are the collection of Stadel Museum, in Frankfurt, which were shipped here for one of the main attractions for Melbourne's Winter. I saw the original paintings of Picasso, Monet, Van Gogh, Renoir and other famous names, such as Rodin (with his sculptures). Their paintings are great, although not all of their iconic works are there.

Looking at them, again, reminding me of the paintings I have never been able to make. The brush strokes, the blend of paint colors, the lighting effects...all have frustrated me because of my inability to properly do them, although I have wished for it so much.

Anyway, I'm glad, some of my childhood dream again came true: seeing the world-class paintings with my own eyes in my lifetime. One item checked!

PS:
Caption:
Pierre Auguste RENOIR
French 1841-1919
After the luncheon
(La fin du déjeuner) 1879
oil on canvas
100.5 x 81.3 cm
Städel Museum, Frankfurt
Acquired in 1910

U. Edelmann - Städel Museum/ARTOTHEK

From:
http://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/whats-on/exhibitions/exhibitions/melbourne-winter-masterpieces-2010

Window of the world

Three generations before me, my ancestors perhaps did not know that there is a world beyond their small tiny island. Two generations before me, they started to be able to read and knew that there were some lives as well beyond their small island. With the opening of schools, my grandfather started to acknowledge that the world is so broad and that it is possible to travel to, and there were some great people outside his small world. He started to travel outside the island, to serve as a teacher in other island. My father and his brothers were sent outside the island, to pursue their higher degree. Back then, he realised that his children including the girls must have the opportunity to be educated at whatever cost possible. Learning from his sisters who had not gotten the opportunity as good as his, all of his daughters enjoy the same level of education as the sons. Now I enjoy living abroad to study, as my brother did, as my other brother will. Other siblings have also been lived or travelled abroad quite extensive. Something my grandfather and grandmother might have just dreamed about! Therefore I may say, education is indeed, the window of the world!

Caption: window of Irene's room, at Dorothy Impey Nursing Home, Pascoe Vale.

The girl who has never eaten oranges

This title may be unimaginable for those who live in the developed countries, or even those who live in Indonesian cities, yet this is a 2010 story.

Her name is Y. She's about 12 years old when I met her. She now lives with my Mom. The story about how she eventually ended up in my Mom's house is probably just a normal story for those who live in Timor, or Kupang to be precise. There are way too many poor families live in rural Timor areas; Y's parents are among those hundred of thousand families. Her parents have 6 children. She's number 3, and has 3 younger siblings. One of them is still breastfed. She comes from a typical poor farmer family, who has very small plot of land, living subsistently, and very much depends on the so called 'social capital', a.k.a, social network: the neighbour and uncle who work as construction worker in Kupang. I don't know how it started, but my sister happened to find Y's older sister to work for her from one of the construction worker uncle. A, if I'm not mistaken, is her name. A's work is very good, that when my sister needed a boy to help her family with gardening etc, the uncle and A ask for A's younger brother to join with my sister's family. And Am, that's the boy's name, came and joined his sister, by living in my sister's house. Since he was in school already in his village, my sister and her husband, -both are teachers, continued to send him to school where my brother in-law teaches.

Then came my younger brother's wife, who has a 'babysitter' for his infant daughter, who also the A's family connection (yes, this is part of the 'social network' I was talking about). She said that A's parents 'offered' their younger daughter to be a help for her, with cooking and babysitting. So, that's how Y came to our family's life.

One day, my sister in law found that the fruits she kept for my niece were missing. Someone stole it from the shelve. Y denied that it was her. Several dramatic interrogations by my in-law, who believed that Y's a cheater, resulted in her being transferred to my Mom's house (to shorten the story, I wouldn't give any details here), as per our advices. We're concerned to keep her in school because she was just transferred from the school in her village for a week, so if she had to return to the village, no school will accept her back.

After staying at our home for some days, and I suggested Mom to feed her well, we found out that this girl apparently had never been exposed to different kinds of food. Terribly enough, she doesn't eat fish because she was not used to from her 'landlocked' village. As for fruits, she had never practically seen apples, oranges, moreover grapes or strawberries for example. It's amazing how we take it for granted, that fruits must be available in our daily diets, to keep us healthy. Some people have never imagined such fruits. We, at home, started to get the real picture now. Imagine oneself, in one's teenager days, eager and curious about the world, and looked at a red apple, or a shiny rounded orange, and one just can see it but not allowed to touch it. It's probably hard, unless, one's parents educated one very good on ethics and morality, good and bad (eg. stealing is not good for whatever reason, even it is deep poverty). That, is too much to expect from a poor family who has 6 mouths to be fed with the crops from their small plot of land. The most probable thing is, one would like to try taste it, at any cost. And Y, has just made sense for her circumstances. She chose to take it. She tasted it. And she became a thief in common people's eyes. But she was given second chance I supposed. With a bit of effort to understand the circumstances, she was given the opportunity, as Mom said, she was too young to be punished. It was just oranges, by the end of the day. Imagine her future as a human, capable of learning and doing much better things than her parents in the village, for herself and for others, must be damaged because of the stolen oranges*.

Just because she has never eaten oranges before, doesnt mean her life must be ruined....

Epilogue: I was just rang home, Mom said that Y got good marks at school. The teachers admired her, since it is very rare that a student transferred from village would make a good rank in the city school.


* I remember Les Miserables that is about this theme.

S.U.N.Y.I...S.I.L.E.N.C.E

Buat beberapa orang, sunyi adalah hukuman
Buat beberapa orang, sunyi adalah neraka itu sendiri
Sunyi adalah perjalanan meluncuri jurang
Saat jatuh, dan tidak tahu kapan akan mencapai dasar jurang
Seperti itulah rasanya sunyi
Kita merasa harus mengisinya
Kita merasa kita harus memberi isi pada wadah kosong itu
Kita merasa harus memberi makna pada volume kosong wadah itu
Karena jika tidak, kosong itu tak terdefinisikan
Sehingga orang menciptakan realitas (realitas) lain
Untuk mengisi sunyi itu

Peradaban manusia bagaikan upaya mengisi sunyi yang panjang
Karena dalam sunyi panjang itu kita tak dapat diam saja
Kita mencoba menciptakan realitas-realitas lain
Karena tak satupun yang telah sampai ke dasar itu
Datang dan menceritakan kepada mereka yang menunggu,
Apakah sunyi itu tak berguna sama sekali?
Ataukah berguna sekali? Siapa yang tahu?

Lebih berbahagia mereka yang tahu hakekat sunyi itu sedari awal
Sehingga sadar bahwa mereka sedang dalam perjalanan menuju dasar
Yang mereka sudah tahu rupanya
Atau paling tidak, yang mereka yakin mereka sudah tahu
Karena jika kita tidak tahu sedang mengapa sekarang kita
Atau sedang menuju ke mana kita nanti
Tidak masalah di titik mana kita berada sekarang
Karena tidak ada bedanya

Lebih berbahagia ialah mereka yang tahu hakekat sunyi itu sedari awal
Daripada mereka yang menjalani kesunyian tanpa kesadaran
Bagaikan orang yang bermimpi dalam perjalanan
Dan terkesiap saat terjaga
Dan mendapatinya berada di dasar jurang
Yang tak pernah diketahui
Namun yang tidak ada lagi gunanya untuk diketahui…

----------------
SILENCE  (Englist transl)

For some people, silence is a punishment
For some people, silence is hell itself
Silence is like sliding down the abyss
On the way down, with no knowledge of when it will reach the abyss
Such as quietness
We feel compelled to fill it
We feel we had to give substance to the empty container
We feel compelled to give meaning to the volume of the empty container
Because if not, the empty remains undefined
So people create other reality 
To fill the silence

Human civilization is like an attempt to fill a long silence
Because in the long silence we can not say anything
We tried to create other realities
Because none of them have come to the bottom of the abyss
Or come back and tell those who wait,
Is this quietness useless at all?
Or is it useful? Who knows?

Happier are those who know the essence of silence outset
So they aware that they were on the way to the bottom
That they already knew apparently
Or at least, that they believed they already knew
Because if we do not know what are we doing now here
Or where we are heading next
It is none of a problem at which point are we now
Because it makes no difference

More blessed are those who know the essence of silence outset
Than those who underwent silence without awareness
Like a man who had been dreaming all the way
And gasped when awake
And found him at the bottom of the abyss
that he had never known
But that there was no longer any point to know ...

Inspired by: Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett
Caption: Poso, Rima's platform in the morning, 2005

So listen to the radio...

These are the three most played songs that I remember, and probably will always remember, when I first came to Melbourne:

One Republic: Stop and Stare
Vanessa Amorossi: Perfect
Sara Bareilles: Love Song

Radio, to me, plays a very important role to make sense of a new place. You know, the feeling when you are new to a place, when it's like you just jump off your space craft and land in an alien planet. The first thing that I usually do is tuning my radio to the local radio stations. You'll get the feeling of localities. Of how do local people talk, what are the hot local issues, which songs are favored by the locals, and even knowing the local people's love stories (I don't know why, seems that there must be at least one radio station dedicated for the hopeless sentimental romantic bunch of people in each town or city). Radio provides something that even television cannot provide. The sense of interaction, the sense of real people, not machine, not gas tube, who talk to you, that makes radio will survive this age. I think radio will make its own history, apart from the fact that internet have been so massively intruded people's lives.

Hard to live without radio, the only reason why I eventually decided to buy iPod and not Creative as usual, is because the new Nano series has radio in it. Otherwise, I would have been loyal to Creative.


Caption: iPod taken from:
http://www.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl=http://www.ipresents.co.uk/i/stuff/ipod-radio-remote.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.ipresents.co.uk/music/2006/01/ipod-fm-radio-remote.html&usg=__OllhTC-l3p5HjJs9PE_IxCGigFk=&h=598&w=450&sz=30&hl=en&start=47&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=uHjbQ8TGSHXuiM:&tbnh=135&tbnw=102&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dradio%26start%3D40%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26rlz%3D1W1GZAZ_en-GB%26ndsp%3D20%26tbs%3Disch:1

Meals diversification

These are some of my menus these days:

Breakfast: frittata with bacon and spinach
Lunch: beef ravioli pasta with bolognese and wine sauce (heated with shredded ham) with grated parmesan cheese.
Dinner: Rice + chicken bumbu Bali + gado-gado

Breakfast: Turkish bread + smoked salmon dips
Lunch: Rice + Mongolian lamb + fried mushroom
Dinner: Hawaiian pizza

Sometimes I also had blueberry muffin or apple cinammon muffin and chai latte during tea time if I happened to be in uni.

The other days I've had couscous with spicy lamb, also whole wheat burger filled with roasted chicken, tomato, cheese, mayonaise - or filled with hot Hungarian salami, or mashed potato with gravy beef or casserole.

I love diversity! I love experiments! It's a culinary adventure I defined myself (by the word 'culinary', I don't mean it as an art, 'cos, yeah, those meals could have been cooked with Coles or Laguna instant spices, but then, I don't see any problem with that, why should I? :p).

By having this variety of meals, I guess I have unconsciousnessly prepared to go home, where choices are not much, and rice will be the main staple food. Oh... Errr..no, probably I can be more creative with lontong, noodles, sweet potatoes, potatoes, cassava or bread. And with huge variety of fishes (which I have never got bored of), the opportunity can always be created. Let's see..

PS: the picture is another modification for the pasta sauce: I added chopped mushrooms into the shredded ham.

Paintings in my mind (1)

Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali (the clock)
Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh (the flowers and the sunrays)
Monalisa by Leonardo da Vinci (the lips, off course)
Potret Diri by Basuki Abdullah (the untidy hair)

...among others, are the famous paintings I can recall from my mind, the objects in brackets stemmed there in my small brain during my childhood. Where did I get to know those paintings? I sometimes wondered too. Then I recalled, they had visited my small little town, and infused my small little brain from the magazines and newspaper such as Intisari, Tempo, Kompas or Sinar Harapan that my father bought and brought home so many decades ago. I was about 6 years old, or at least in my primary school age. The pictures were tantalizing. Vivid. They often came into my childhood dreams. The most appreciated legacy Dad has on us (me especially) is the trait of his thirst to read and absorb new knowledge. For any reason. I remember that even during his last days at the hospital, he was so happy when I brought him the Indonesian edition of Reader's Digest, or Tempo or Kompas to be read when he was really bored of the hospitals, and medications and doctors and nurses and all sort of limitations he must have faced at the hospital.

I guess he had the same feeling with me everytime I read something new: I can easily transported to a totally different world, the new world of new knowledge. Knowing something that previously wasn't thought of, which apparently exist. Knowing places that others had been journeyed to before. That feeling of fulfillment, satisfaction, like a drip of water absorbs into dry soil.

And once upon a time, in my real life, I've had a chance to really observe carefully one of the paintings. Persistence of Memory by Dali. There in the Arts Centre of Melbourne last year. The moment I saw it, it's like "Whoaaaa...you're for real, man!" My mind travelled fast to the past. Like turning the pages of my life, a sort of rewinding my years to the day I turned the page of Intisari decades ago. The same sort of admiration embraced me. How come these people be so genius? How come these paintings are so beautiful?

Looking at the beautiful paintings remind me of my own failures: never been able to paint a good painting. A sense of desperation about paintings that made me turned to photography (not really photography but just taking pictures I suppose). I have a problem translating the beautiful objects in my mind into brush and papers (never used canvas til then). Always failed to blend the dark blue of the sky when it is almost dark in the evening; never been able to blend the right yellow orange of the moon on a moonlight night; never been able to blend the correct mix of blue and pink sky on the verge of sunset; never been able to draw a smooth line between the sea water and the sand, to mention some of my frustrations. The list is long actually, just can't write them all down here.

I guess, in the end, I'd sort of giving up this dream. Perhaps when I'm old, I'd like to try again when time allows. Oh, I suddenly remember the day when my drawing (with watercolour) was copied by a friend in Year 8. She did that without my permission, but she had never admitted it when I've asked her. Deep in my heart, I prouded that it meant my picture was good enough to be a model. That was the day when I thought, perhaps I could be an artist or a painter. I recall the picture is about groups of yellow bamboo trees in the bank of a small water spring or river. With the big grey stones, and the shades of the bamboos fall on the blueyish water. And the blue greenish mountain on the background. Such natural scenic sights I'd always wanted to see in the real life.

Well, at least I went to architecture to pursue half of my dream of being an artist or a painter. Other than that, I will keep trying to be able to see with my own eyes the paintings of my childhood dreams, those of the great painters. One has been fulfilled. Others are to be kept dreaming of (I'm sorry for the grammatical error).

Naive, Idealist, or Stupid?

It’s hard to draw a clear line between a naive, an idealist or simply a stupid person. When one is trying to tell the truth about how one feels the world should be, or the neighborhood or people around him/her should be in an ideal setting, one usually receive similar replies such as:

1) You’re so naive

2) You’re too idealist

3) You must be stupid, don’t you know that the world is changing?

Examples of the questions that usually receive the abovementioned replies:

1) But he should practice what he preached, shouldn’t he? People must be consistent with what the said, don’t they?

2) But ones should not use their friends for their own benefits for whatsoever reason, isn’t it?

3) But it is clear that he/she is wrong, why don’t just he/she admit and so that the problem solved? Why it is so difficult to admit that he/she is wrong?

One may say, it’s OK if the person who mention the question is a child, but not a 20’s, 30’s or older persons, who should have seen the world long enough to realize that the world doesn’t operate the way we thought when we were children. Then life must be difficult for the person who insist to see the world from a child’s perspective. I did want to insist doing so: seeing the world from a child’s perspective. And the result: some people just using you, cheating at you, try to get benefit from you, and you witnessed some people doing things contradict with what they always "preach" about. It isn’t the good world you would have ever imagined when you’re a child, is it?

I just asked a question to my friends: and why I now have to face all these difficulties and problems? The answer from different friends (is simple and short each) are as follows:

1) because you’re stupid, lack of suspiciousness, unaware.

2) because you’re naive, too trust someone.

3) because you’re too idealist. you thought you can change people, you thought when you’re kind to someone, they will treat you as kind as you expect.

4) because you’re too kind.

The answers are not necessarily reflecting the "normal" causal-effect answer, are they? (note: I consider "normal" causal effect e.g: if you’re kind, other will be kind, vice versa. If you do evil things, bad things will happen to you, etc.). And when I observe others’ life, similar things applied: some evil people found a happy ending and live happily ever after, while some good and nice people live their life in misery and suffering. I’m confused. I’m just trying to see the world through my perspective, and do what I taught to do be consistent, be trustworthy, be kind, be faithful et cetera. Apparently, those values are no longer trendy. Those are old fashioned values from the world in ideal realm. They are impractical to contemporary life.

Let’s check what Wikipedia says about these three problematic terminologies:

Naive: lacking experience or understanding; inexperienced; unsuspecting

Idealist:

1) (philosophy) One who adheres to idealism.
2) Someone whose conduct stems from idealism rather than from practicality.
3) An unrealistic or impractical visionary.

Stupid: Lacking in intelligence. Also, exhibiting the quality of having been done by someone lacking in intelligence.

Seems to me like they’re different in definition, albeit the slight similarity between naive and idealist. Stupid is totally different, it is something given rather than something done by choice. Naive could be mix of by choice or given.

If so, can someone who by intention choose to be naive or idealist, survive in this contemporary world? The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind..the answer is blowing in the wind.. (inspired by Bob Dylan lyrics that I listened to last night).

May 13, 2007 -also migrated from old FS blog

On being an enemy and the hated

I have never imagined that a person could be so insecured that he spent most of his time thinking about hating people and about how to make other people’s life suffered. He must have been the most sick people in the world, and must be so tired to become him because the person he hates doesn’t feel that way in return. I feel so pity for him because I still can laugh, smile, and enjoy the world, -while he spends most of his time to think about how to kick me out of here. It is OK if I’m an evil person, but look at me, doesn’t he feel like wasting his valuable time because I won’t give a damn care at all for this psychological ‘war’ that he created? He’s not yet God, so..as I mentioned in my shout out quote: as long as the sky is not fall into my head yet, -there’s nothing to worry about! (Abraracourcix, Galia Village Chief:). The price of his hatred toward me, it is his burden, it is his sins and not mine. I’m not loosing anything, I’m still enjoying life, doing my hobbies, having family and friends,..and he is hating me all the time. Poor him…He supposed to spend his time for something more valuable than just hating people. Doesn’t he feel tired?? If I were him, I would rather choose to hate Fidel Castro, George Bush, Ahmadinejad, Paul Wolfowitz, Perez Musharraf, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, Ehud Olmert, Osama bin Laden, or maybe jealous to Collin Farrel, Tom Cruise, Angelina Jollie, Brad Pitt or the other popular celebs rather than ME! Who am I to be hated? I feel so flattered that people are able hate me (as I’m usually not a hate-able person) and want to spend their time to hate me… It’s amazing and a totally new experience for me: being hated so much!! :-))))).

Wrote April2007-when my case was on its peak.

The "IFs" - the boundary between life and death

Death and life have a very subtle line in between; add an “IF”, and you’re dead, take away an “IF”, then you’ll still alive. We might often hear such sentences like: “If the doctor came earlier, he might have been saved”, or, “If he didn’t go that day, he might have still alive”, or, “If she didn’t insist to fly with that flight, she might not have dead”. Most of us probably, those who see things from spiritual aspect, will associate the absence or presence of that “if” factor with our destiny: “It’s not his/her/my time yet to die”, or further “Maybe there are many unfinished things that we have in this world, that’s why God hasn’t yet called us back to heaven”. Some maybe are just realistic, “Well it’s just because the driver was careless”, or, “It’s because of the poor health care and medication that made her died”. People perceived death, or near death or other unfortunate events in many different ways.

The accident
I have never been as closed to death as I just experienced last week. Even until now I still feel like it was just a sort of nightmare, an unreal event. I could have been dead that night. I and my friends were on our way back to Jakarta from Bandung with a rent car. We drove through the highway very fast, as everybody else did, approximately at 100 to 120 km/hour speed. It was quite foggy when we left Bandung. In some part of the road, we could only see less than 100 meter ahead. As we approached Karawang, we saw a truck stop in the second row of the road, leaving a narrow empty space in the left and two rows in the right side filled with other two cars. Everybody said to the driver to push the brake from like 500 meter before we reached that congestion, but he drove too fast that it would be too dangerous to push brake in sudden. So he steered the car which was still in the high speed to the right side of the road, a bowl-shaped, 6-meter wide space with thick grass, to avoid hitting the other cars. Our car “flew” (I believe we really flew, literally), hit and bumped the grass several times before it really stopped (spinning). If I’m not mistaken, it was around four times bump or so. Eventually, it stopped at about 30 degrees from the soil, right side up, followed the land contour. Strangely, no screaming, nobody spoke or said anything during the “flight”. When we really stopped, the driver asked, “Is everyone okay?” Then we all got down from the car and tried to push the car up to the road, but failed. Lucky then because the vehicle service from toll road came and dragged our car up. We drove half way up to Cikarang and the other car from the rental picked us up return to Jakarta.

The weird imagination

I initially hesitated to go because I was sick. I got cold and flu two days earlier, and this time with a bit fever. My body temperature was higher than normal, and I felt so weak. I almost refused to join but I felt that it wasn’t good to cancel what we’ve planned weeks before. So there I was, slept most of the time during the trip to Bandung, and still felt not well when we returned to Jakarta. I’m not sure whether it because I was having a kind of fever or what, but a few kilometers before we approached the foggy road, I had a terrible imagination. I imagined about how hurt it was for those who died because of hitting the concrete blocks/fence (since we just passed the concrete blocks fence). It must be really hurt when they died and their souls leaving their fractured body. Until now I still wonder why I could have such a horror picture in my mind. When our car almost hit the other cars and we flew to the grassy space, I thought it was my time, when the horror image actually came to pass, but this time with me as the victim. I slightly had a thought about me joining those who have just gone before like my father, my aunt, et cetera. I also slightly had a spark of thought about my plan to study abroad, which may never comes true if I die that night. What a tragic life of mine if it’s happened.

The post accident and the if’s

After realizing that we have not died, we were quite shocked, and even we tried to be as normal as possible, we inevitable started to think about the “If’s”. If the road has concrete blocks fence, we’re dead. If the driver insisted to push the brake suddenly, we’re dead because of the shock of hitting other vehicles. If he chose to steer a bit left, we would have hit the truck and we’re dead. If he was panic and couldn’t control the steer, we’re dead. In reverse, if I refused to join the group from the beginning, I would have not experienced that accident. If we spoke louder for the driver to push the brake, he might have done it earlier, and no accident, or, he might have more panic and losing control of the steer, and we’re dead. If the grassy space’s shape is not like a bowl, we might have bumped into the road across and hit by the cars from Jakarta that were in the high speed, and we might dead. If God said it was our time to take an eternal rest, we were dead. There were so many “if’s”, whether for good or for bad destiny. Maybe, it’s not just our time. Maybe because there are so many tasks we have to carry out in this earth. There are many more people we should meet, there are people we need to help, and there are other places we need to visit. Maybe in the book of life, our life wasn’t supposed to end that night. It’s the other date in the future….. As nobody knows when the day our soul was infused to our mother’s womb, our last day is as secret as our first.

Wrote in Apr'08 as a reflection after the Bdg-Jkt accident.

c.H.a.N.g.E

Is change good or bad? Many say people should change, do not just stay where you are. You have to change. Leave the status quo. Break the rules sometimes. Get out of the boundaries. Set a new rule. Play different game than something you have been playing for your whole life. Challenge yourself to do things differently. But are they all good? Are all these ‘campaigns’ about change good for all people? What if someone choose to stay where they are because they feel comfortable? Then there will be a question about leaving your comfort zone. Yeah, people who choose to stay in the comfort zone must be the most boring, un-brave and plain creatures ever created in the world. And I know how it feels to become one of that kind of people, and on the other hand, to become the persistent ’sponsor’ of the change to other. It’s really bad to see people don’t want to move from their chair just because they don’t want to loose their old chair. They don’t know what other options are available for them out there, could be just a bench, or a brand new sophisticated rocking chair. Unless they have the guts to jump out and throw out the chair, they will never know. And it’s difficult to tell someone that their chair is actually start to rotten, and they’ll fall, while they still enjoy that old rotten chair, the smell, the security it provides, the sense of being ‘at home’ with something you’ve already familiar with. Until you ready to let it go, you’ll let it go. Without regret and hard feeling. But yes, it’s hard to ‘agitate the system’, -the term used in the facilitator's training, -when the system always tend to re-establish at its initial state. The word "established", equally to "status quo", is scary for liveable people, but sounds like a song for the ‘comfort zone lover’ (I'm leaning to the former I suppose). But what kind of live is one living, if it’s only in a circle of security, the whole life? Static perhaps. Or stable? Not interested for sure. The anti-dynamic life.. Hope I’m not into it…

*Transferred from old FS blog too, 25Jul08*

Homeless Mind

A pretty odd title, isn’t it? That’s one of the subheading in one of the first reading task from a lecture early this week, -to be exact, the first week of the real "back to school again after almost a decade" episode of my life. A 10-pages article took me 2 hours to finish. This time it’s not about the English (at least that's what I thought), it’s about the philosophical terms. It’s interesting that most of the arguments there are about existensialism, an issue I described as a high risk topic, because years and years ago I always found myself had sleeping difficulty upon reading those ideas of Sartre, Baudrillard (this one is post-structuralist I guess, not existensialist?), Kierkegaard and so on. My mind (or my brain, or my conscience) awoke, and kept thinking and working long after I read those sort of writing. They were running fast, I thought the synapses and cells and tissues were so productive in sending the electric pulses one another that they forgot they must have got rest in order to be functioned well the next morning. Fell asleep at 3 o’clock in the morning was normal when I read those things.

Imagine what phrase I read in the reading brick: "..the anomy of social movement correlates with metaphysical sense of homelessness in cosmos, which correlates with personal alienation on the level of consciousness". That’s when the writer wants to elaborate the concept of homeless mind, in which have caused modern people paradoxally feel being nowhere, lost orientation, thus need something, an anchor, an orientation from their ‘nothingness’ because they don’t have a strong ground where they can call home for their mind that travel or journey endlessly, being in constant movement since the beginning.

Check this one again: ".. ‘disorder’ and ‘order’ are statements of relations between a purposive perceiving entity and some set of objects and events; they are determined by individuals’ states of mind." (Bateson). My paraphrasing is: normal or abnormal is depend on how people define and decide what is normal and what is abnormal. Just because many people say it’s normal, doesn’t mean it’s normal from other’s perspective. The consequence is: schizoprenic might be normal to some extent (ever seen Beautiful Mind?). It’s about how one perceives something..Should I say welcome to the world of anti-structuralism and post-modernism ?

*Transferred from my old FS blog, 31 Jul 2008 -before it is forgotten*

Two weddings I wouldn't be able to attend

I have just received 2 wedding announcements in 10 minutes :). It's quite a record. When an old friend of mine popped up in YM window and I chatted with her about the good news, I received an email in Gmail, an e-invitation for another wedding in Malang. Both were my colleagues back in my undergraduate time. The first one is my ex house mate, one year older than me. I recalled attending her first wedding in Semarang, but two years later her husband passed away because of cancer. Now she's going to remarry again. I was happy for her for the good news. That means her son will have a new father, which is great in my opinion. It must have been hard to raise a kid alone all these times. The second is one year younger than me. I knew for sure he's been waiting for this moment quite long. He used to often talk about this topic back then. I hope he's happy now that he's found the right one. Unfortunately I can attend neither of the weddings, though I wouuld love to go, they could be reunions. The dates are in end of June and early July. I'll still be here by then. Anyhow, I wish both of them a very happy wedding. Be blessed forever my friends!

Do you plan to stay here?

Two similar topics appeared last week, I suddenly recalled.

1. At NAB Coburg counter, when I was about to deposit my cheque.

Q: Do you have any investments?
A: No (smiling)
Q: Do you plan to have any?
A: No, but I don't think so
Q: What do you do here?
A: I'm an international student
Q: Where? (look enthusiast)
A: Melbourne Uni
Q: Oh, great. Do you plan to stay here after your study?
A: No, I don't think so, I should go back to my country after I finish.
Q: When?
A: This August.
Q: Oh, too bad, I see. But do you plan to buy property or a house?
A: Oh, I don't think so, thank you.

My thoughts:
I was really flattered that the amount of money in my bank account has generated these kind of questions! It's a very rare moment in my life :). This was gonna be one of the memorable moment I will keep. My bank account seldom attracting such question :).


2. At the language course. Before the class started, while Franziska was making coffee.

Q: How's your thesis going?
A: Oh well, hard to say. I've gotta submit itnext week. So this week is like...rrrr..hell..
Q: Ooh, I know. My husband's also working on his, and I think he started to lose his hair because of that!
A: Oh, too bad, but I can see why. What he's doing?
Q: He's working on a mathematical formula that is going to be applied to computer software. He's an applied mathematician.
A: Gosh, that sounds scary to me. Now I do really see why (smirking). But I'm pretty sure he will get a good job. His expertise is not so common I suppose.
Q: Do you plan to stay or apply for a permanent residence? 'Cause I and my husband are planning to do so. I hope he will get a good job in uni because of his research. We've been living on a scholarships too, so we've been living almost like poor people here (smiling).
A: No, I can't. My scholarship demands the awardees to return to their home countries and work there for at least 2 years before we can come to Australia again. And, oh, I know about that stipend stuff too (similing). I and my friends usually joked about how our living cost are even lower than the people who live from Centrelink welfare payment here..hehe
Q: Yeah...(laughing)
Then the students came and I must prepare my laptop and the photocopies.

My thoughts:
I don't think Development Studies will be an area of interest of DIMIA, and don't think I'm going to be interested to apply for PR, because then it must be a desk-cubicle type of work. The wage I can stand :), but the boredom, I may not be able to resist.

Stephen's legacy

I went to Cross Culture Church at the corner of Little Lonsdale and Swanston st. It's because I plan to stay in uni til morning, and this church is just 10 minutes away with tram, so I thought it's practical to go there than to Brunswick, half an hour travel.

Didn't know why I've never been able to distinguish the position of the 'littles': Is Little Bourke between Bourke St and Lonsdale St, or between Bourke St and Collins St? Is Little Lonsdale between Lonsdale and Bourke or Lonsdale and La Trobe?

So I got off at the Lonsdale St tram stop, hoping to have a little stroll at QV first before entering the church because it was 15 minutes early. So I walked down Lonsdale to the direction of Bourke St. Until I realized that the China Town's gate was almost right across the street. It means, it's Little Bourke already. "No way", I thought. Walking back again? I must. No choice. So there I was, entering the church. First 45 minutes was sharing from a minister who work for community development back in Vietnam, some songs, prayers, offering and holy communion. Oh, by the way, the liturgist is cute:). Then came the reverend to deliver the sermon.

It was about Stephen, the church's first martyr. I have never heard a really good and clear explanation about what happened to Stephen, until today. The reverend elaborated in detail the chronology of the life and death of Stephen. He was the first deacon of the 7 chosen by the apostles. Has a good reputation in helping the poor and strong in faith, not talked much though. Until the Jews, especially the council of Sanhedrin got irritated for his sermons about Jesus and Christianity. That what Stephen argued with the council was not to defend himself, but just answers to them, taking from the Old Testament and the history, by the guidance of the Holy Spirit.

-On against Moses teaching and the Law: who violated the Law most? He asked back.
-On preaching about the destruction of the Temple: who made the Temple a place of pagans' idols worship? And whose Temple is it now? Isn't it Herod's Temple? Why do you think God want to destroy it? He asked back.
-On Jesus, the Messiah that they killed: which prophets your fathers didn't prosecute? Who prosecuted the God's prophets most? Weren't they your fathers? He asked back.

And the council gnash their teeth and threw their robs and cloths and stoned him to death because of his answers they accused as a blasphemy.

In the end, he said he saw Jesus, stood at God's right hand in heaven, right before he died. And the Bible says, 'then he fell asleep'.

The excerpts from the last 3 verses about the end of Stephen's life: Acts 7

54When they heard this, they were furious and gnashed their teeth at him. 55But Stephen, full of the Holy Spirit, looked up to heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. 56"Look," he said, "I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God."
57At this they covered their ears and, yelling at the top of their voices, they all rushed at him, 58dragged him out of the city and began to stone him. Meanwhile, the witnesses laid their clothes at the feet of a young man named Saul.

59While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." 60Then he fell on his knees and cried out, "Lord, do not hold this sin against them." When he had said this, he fell asleep.

He prayed for them. Because he knew they were ignorant people, and pitied them.

After the stoning, Christianity spread away from its Jewish legacy and Gentiles had no longer needed to be a Jew to devote God. And that, is Stephen's legacy to the church of God. The reverend closed his sermon there, that wherever we are sent to, we should become like Stephen. Strong in faith, but generous in heart, and stand strong for the truth, but forgiving the sinners and wrongdoers.

Amen.

Curiosity over an indefinite probabilities

What if the history was different? What if life turned up the other way around than the way it has been turned around as we knew?

What if the common knowledge is just one of another ten or hundred possibilities? What if our reality is just one of them?

This evening I listen to several piano pieces from a person I knew from a long long time ago. The person put the pieces on youtube channel. All the person's clips of nature's sights (made with Windows Mediamaker) combined with the piano pieces. They are damn beautiful. This person once in my life, made me a bit obssessed about taking scenic pictures and playing piano.

I recognized some pictures the person once sent me long long time ago. I even recognized some pieces I was also sent some long long time ago. That's a bit hurt. I'd like to put the link here, but I'm afraid that violates copyrights law. I'd rather keeping them in my mind. Let the sound of that piano stays in my mind. It's just another encounter, which became a history now.

If reality does have other alternatives, I would be glad to know in what ways that alternative would have been ended to? I've been so curious about it. The Super Immanent Planner up there must have the reason not to choose that alternative as my alternative. Did He just play a dice over a zillion of possible alternatives ? He must have a better reason for choosing a particular alternative for particular person to experience. His selection, His choice, might have been hurt to those who experience it 'realtime' (the word 'realtime' might have lost its meaning if we take our reality as just one of realities). Nevertheless, as a human who can only experience a three-dimensional world, I'd rather give it up to Him who owns ad experiences multiple dimensions of realities, universe to be exact. Hurt in my perspective, could probably mean a lesson in the Almighty's perspective. I believe...credo in Deum..

One Sunday evening in ERC...

Gelap turun

Daun-daun kuning musim gugur berserakan di atas jalan setapak depan cafe kecil di pojok jalan setapak dan Professor's Court, tempat saya biasanya membeli muffin blueberry atau apel cinammon kegemaran saya. Beberapa mahasiswa nampak kedinginan, berpakaian tertutup dari kaki sampai kepala. Banyak yang memakai coat panjang, namun masih ada pula yang nekat memakai hanya jaket tipis dan rok tanpa stocking. Terburu-buru mereka melangkah, karena hari makin gelap dan angin dingin bercampur gerimis nampak mulai turun membasahi tanah. Dari atas jendela perpustakaan ini saya menyaksikan pemandangan suram tersebut. Dingin. Angin. Hujan. Klasik untuk sebuah musim gugur di belahan bumi Utara dan Selatan. Mengingatkan saya akan London, beberapa tahun yang lalu. Hujan sepanjang hari. Dingin menggigit, gelap mendung, burung gagak terbang mengepakkan sayap hitamnya dan berteriak-teriak. Di mana suara manusia? Mereka sibuk. Semua orang di kota terburu-buru ingin mencapai tujuannya, di manapun itu, yang jelas, yang berpemanas ruangan. Sebentar lagi musim dingin tiba. Tak lama lagi, hari akan berakhir sangat dini, pada pukul lima.

Lampu-lampu mulai menyala di bawah sana. Burung-burung mulai berkepakan menuju pohon-pohon terdekat untuk tidur dan menunggu terang datang lagi. Manusia? Mulai bekerja lagi di bawah cahaya lampu terang benderang. Dari ruangan atas ini misalnya. Saya memandang lagi ke bawah. Tidak ada lagi yang bisa dilihat. Semua gelap. Hanya jendela-jendela di Old Arts yang nampak seperti kotak-kotak cahaya, tertutup rapat dan menyala. Pertanda kehidupan. Paling tidak.

From the window pane

From height again, elevation again.
This time it's from Giblin 2nd floor.
I can see the nice sights down there.
I took the picture with my mobile phone camera,
right when the sun appeared slightly
and the leaves radiate their yellowish shine
they're the last of this season
before chilly winter forces them to get off the trees
and now the sun disappear again
for 5 minutes and then shines again
oh weather oh weather
oh Melbourne famous weather
here i am with the blank screen
the cursor blinks
type nothing over an hour
all I got is this blog post
and these beautiful 2MP poor quality pictures
....the hours were spent just like that..
people walked down the Professor's walk
when do I walk and not to think about these chapters again?
soon, my mind says, soon..
these days will be over
soon, my mind says, soon...

An apple a day keeps the doctor away..two?

I like apples. There have been some times when I didn't like it, but in the place where a huge variety of apples can be found in the market like here, I always find my way to find the right ones.

When I came here, I liked Granny Smith, the type that I loved to eat back in Indonesia (which, I hate to say, are imported). That's two or three years ago, but before that, I like Malang apple (thanks God I spent that many years to study in Malang, the most prominent apple producer in country!). I think it's called Rome Beauty? I love that and the green one too, is the name Malang Apple?

After only buying Granny Smith for years, I diverted to Pink Lady last year, er, no, one and a half year ago if I'm not mistaken. Until one day, I felt that it was too sour to eat during winter, when I often found my stomach too gassy and upset. So accidentally, one day, I grabbed Pink Lady (I've never liked the Red Delicious one, they are too red for me, and because they're always called Washington Apple back in Indonesia, I just don't like it, I think they're too sweet as fruits -the principle of fruit for me is that they're not just sweet -they're suppose to be a bit sour taste to make them fresh. But let's just say it's an anti-American sentiment, -though, inconsistently I like to buy Granny Smith that are imported America, and American cherry because they sell them here in Australia when it's winter and it's not possible to find fresh ones). I then fell for Pink Lady. They became the only type of apple that I looked for when I did my grocery shopping.

Until just recently, few months ago, I, in one occasion, found Fuji Apple interesting and have a perfect blend of sweet and sour. They're not as pretty as Pink Lady (which the name already implied), but the taste is nice. Another sentiment I suppose, because on that occassion, I experienced "memetik" the apple from the very three by myself, it was an above average big apple (not NY:p) in the backyard of a friend's house. The taste was soooo goood and so crunchy. I ended up eating just small amount of food during the dinner that night 'cause I ate the whole apple in the afternoon.

Today I ate two apples and one orange. I guess I will keep two or three doctors away from me...or possibly I will keep a doctor away two or three times ...errr..is that gramatically correct?

PS: Even my current mobile phone wall is the picture of a Fuji apple that I took just minutes before it ended up in my mouth.

Gloomy day

cloudy and rainy all day. i saw the sun just 5 minutes or so at noon, that was all for today. one of the few worst day in melbourne. only minus the wind. such a perfect day to spent at home, laid back, doing perfectly nothing but reading and watching movies and listening to nice music. but they dont happen, just dont happen, i regret. just writing assignment..uh.. i've been missing the autumn because of these stuff..just listening to Yiruma, a friend posted it @FB. such a nice piece i must say..bringing your imagination anywhere but here. anytime but now. anything but these stuff on government's related affair, at this point of life. and the rain is falling again, worse than before...let's hope it will stop somehow tonight, so tomorrow's 6 degrees forecast wouldn't come to pass, at least so that it wouldn't bite the skin more that it should be.

Life stops at 5

The sun sets at 5.00 pm today. Just noticed through the wide window glass, again, at Spot. This is the second day of winter, officially. The idea that life stops at 5 is horrifying me. That's the time when life starts back then, when the offices close. Cold, dark, quiet, -I think it is quite conducive for two things: reflection, creativity (you can go nowhere, s stay and compose a music piece or write something) or frustration/loneliness that can leads to suicidal act (is it true that the suicidal rate is higher in Scandinavian countries?). The cold, dark, quiet stuff just don't match my idea about 'life', I mean, like, 'real life'. Some people find life in casinos, or pubs, or clubs, or discos or those sort of 'night life' spots. I have never thought of those places as real life though. Restaurants and cafes perhaps, but not the formers. Yes, the music is loud, people chat, -yell each other I can say, since they have to compete with the music, -sound like life, but no they're not. If you want some (loud) music, go to a concert, or install your own home theatre. People hardly talk there. If you want to chat, go to a cafe, people can talk there. Feels like screaming? Yes, karaoke could be the answer, one can scream without being investigated for having a mental health problem. Want to dance? Yeah, that's another question. I don't dance, not a single move. So we can skip this question, can't we? (this is the trick I learned from my ex boss, an I***** who always said that whenever he was put on the corner). Want to gamble? Never have enough money to waste on gambling. Bored? Boredom is a luxurious good. Never have such luxury to feel bored. Bored meaning one has TOO MUCH time, and that's a rare occassion for me. Always have a way too many things to do and explore in this world that I wish I can do if I have enough time. I think it's John Rowle's old song that has those words, here I just Googled them:

So much to do
If I only had time
If I only had time
Dreams to pursue
If I only had time
They'd be mine

Time like the wind
Those are hurrying by
And the hours just fly
Where to begin
There are mountains I'd climb
If I only had time...

Time..time..time..deadline..deadline..deadline..schedule..schedule..schedule..they're ticking out..

Wondering why I decided to write this at the first instance..a distraction, I created my own distraction..not a good idea... I'd better end it here..

A night on the Spot and the end of a career

It's 7.25 pm now. I can see the city almost 180 degrees wide from the 6th floor of the Spot, the Economics and Commerce's sophisticated, eco-friendly building which was just officially opened early this year. The lights from buidings and cars down in Royal Parade and Elizabeth St. look nice from up here. Some houses' lights are dimmed in far west. One that is quite obvious is the new Women's Hospital right 20 degrees from my point of view. It's a bird-eye perspective view, -one of the few lesson I can hardly recall from my architectural background. The traffic is quite fast in Grattan St seing from my right side of window glass, which is 2/3 opened now. I always like elevation since I was small. I don't know why. I tended to like to climb tree or wall, or roof sometimes when necessary. Mango trees, accacia trees, tamarind, banyan, -even papaya or coconut, just mention it. I always think, that by elevating myself from reality, I can sense the relativity of my realities and others. I can guess, create stories, and indulge my mind with some freedom of imagination.

I can clearly recall the moment when I sat at the branches of -I don't know the tree's name, -in the right corner of my front yard. I sat there for quite long, observing people on the street. A man passed by the street, he looked like walking without expression. I created the story about him in my own mind. Maybe he has no money, maybe his family and children are waiting for him to come with no results. Maybe he is thinking about what to say..etc. Minutes later, other people walked by the street. Some students, some young mothers with their children. My story developed an developed, until I've had enough, climbed down and looked for some food or water in the fridge or food shelves. It's not the sneaking part that I liked, it's the 'flying' part I guess. I like to imagine myself being down there, and somebody watches over me from an elevation, and wondering how small I must be in the other's view. I can imagine if even myself can look that small, my problem must be even smaller..

This 'amateur climbing career' if you like, ended quite unsuccesfully in Surabaya, unfortunately, when I was on the first grade in colleague. I and my room mate were so tempted by the look of our landlord's sweet red jambu air hanging, moving slowly when the wind flowed(yes, we felt like Eve who were tempted by the forbidden fruit in Eden), so we decided to climb the tree, quite acrobatic, through the house's asbestos roof, jumped on the branches, and only God knew how we managed to get through the top. The last images I've had in my mind was that both of us fell through the asbestos roof in one of the kost room in the ground floow, just beside the bed of one male anak kost, we were lucky enough though, that there was no sign of his presence in that room. Once the consciousness returned, we ran to our room in the 1st floor and kept silent until we heard the thunder voice of the bapak kost from the main house looking for the "perpetrators". I totally forgot how the story ended. I could not recall we confessed, I think we did though. There's no way that he would let us free just like that. He's stingy and very calculated in everything he's done, that's what I remember.

Nowadays I learned to choose more secure ways to enjoy elevation. Such as this time. in the tall building, or in the airplane. During take off of the plane (one of my favorite moment in the plane is the take off, before the sight right down the plane gets boring because the plane's elevation is too high). Moreover, I think the society considers it's quite abnormal for a woman in her thirties to climb trees at home anymore. I might not give a damn care, but to comply with one of my principle of life: avoid the avoidable problems and questions, I'd chose not to continue the 'career' anymore. And there, down there now, there are fewer cars in the street. They're going so very slow. The night is young I know, but the clock is ticking. These papers and chapters must be finished..

I choose to end my posting here tonight. For the sake of..I don't know. Efficiency? Sanity? Diploma? Grades? Certificate? Ah yes, a ticket back to equator, a land not far away from here.

The flowers, the gloomy day and the laugh

Friday
A little boy next door, as little as 5 years old, gave me some small red flowers. Three flowers. They are red. Very small, -but beautiful. And he blinked his eyes towards me and smiled and shied. Such a sweet little thing. He kept talking on the tram to me, trying quite hard to get my attention with his sometimes illogical stories, a mix between fantasy car, or scooter, and a real vehicle. Until he and his mom got off at Victoria Market and I proceeded to Collins Street to get on the next 109 tram to Fitzroy.

Saturday
On the way to Moreland Station with my housemates. An old man, I mean, really old, white haired, on a scooter/wheelchair, passing in front of us, just near the gas station. He blinked his eyes towards me for seconds, like flirting. I was shocked. What the heck was that?

Sunday

One
An old man asked me two questions:
First : are you Greek?
Second: are you married?
Answer:
First : no, I’m not a Greek. I’m from Indonesia.
Second : Yes, back in my country (inspired by Helen’s answer to a man who asked her same question on the tram).
That was the end of the conversation. He left without saying anything. I lied to save myself from further unnecessary annoying conversation. Dear Lord, forgive me, I just returned from attending Sunday service and I lied at the first step on the tram.

Two
I bought a bunch of mix flowers for Irene, my friend at the nursing home. Just a few meters outside the flowers’ shop, a little old man, white haired, wearing a pet hat, smiled at me. “That flower’s for me, no?” he pleaded. I answered, “Sorry, no”, smiled back, saying a “Have a nice day” and walked through the Coburg market pedestrian alley, rather quickly, or I’d miss the couch to O’Hea Street. Missing a couch during weekend is a disaster. The smell of fresh bread of the bakeries along the street could have made me hungry without good reason. People are sitting and chatting in the street café near between the bakeries, cafes and public library. The chilling wind flew through my nose, and it got colder inside me. The skies were grey, such a gloomy day. The autumn leaves fell off and kissed the earth. A guy was sitting in the street café, waiting for his coffee I supposed. He smiled and commented on the flowers again, “They are beautiful don’t they?” I said yes, thank you and kept walking.


Three
Hop on the other bus, but a wrong one. 527 instead of 513, simply because of curiousity, but the route got more and more unknown. Got off at Coburg Terminus to avoid further lost. Ten minutes more, I thought, not bad. At least I spent 15 minutes at other bus than just standing alone at the Coburg Primary School bus stop, with the traces of vomits, left some drunk people last night. I must have walked and crossed the street three times before reaching the next bust stop. An old lady wearing red long coat, blonde curly hair, and an Indian man with a small trolley for junk mail. I walked passed them to see if there’ a vacant seat. None. I walked back. The old lady looked at my strange act of reading a house auction board nearby the bus stop. Undoubtedly, I showed a face that looked as interesting as possible (to the ads). Unfortunately, it was not so convincing, at least not in her opinion. “Do you wanna sit here?” she offered me a space. Both of them smiled at me. I smiled back at her, “No, I’m all right”, and continuing my reading: the auction board. The house is small, with two bed rooms, nice wooden floor. Looks cozy. All right, I’d better stop this lie. I walked closer to the stop, expecting them still offered me the seat. She asked “Which one do you wait for?”. “513, I missed the previous one” I answered. She said “Yes, I hate that too”. “Yeah”, I answered shortly, now understand why she asked which bus, cos 903 and 513 came by from a far. Thanks God. And the skies were grey still.

Four
“Thanks for bring me my flowers while I’m alive and can see them. Don’t bring me flower when I’m 6 feet under”. I knew the sentence exactly, per comma, per dot. Some conversations rolled as usual, she’s chatty most of the time. She thanked me for the money I’ve spent to buy those flowers. I have never mentioned the price to her; it’s not relevant I thought, I’m not a saint I must admit. Those flowers are not expensive at all. Spending 6 dollars every fortnight wouldn’t kill me. It’s only equal to two blueberry muffins at the Professor’s Walk café down the Giblin library.
I said sorry because they’re not so fresh, some leaves start to yellowish and I have to detach them from the bunch before putting them into the vase, that I also bought for her a couple of months ago. I threw the old ones to the bin. They stink, it’s been more than 2 weeks and she’s been keeping them that long. She said she just planned to separate the ones that are still a bit fresh so that she’ll still having the “fresh” flowers. That’s really touched, but it’s an irony. After raising two children and having more than 20 off springs, no one cares to pay a visit, not even to send flowers every fortnight. I told her, “This is what I can do while you’re alive Irene, because I’ll probably won’t be here when you die”. She smiled back at me.
I saw the artificial grass down there from Irene’s window, green, too green for this season. They put some chairs to sit there, but I bet nobody would do that in this kind of weather. I told Irene when the weather gets better, she should try going down there, or I can accompany her to walk down, -‘cause I know she’s an outdoor person. But I know that time would probably be not existed. By the time the weather gets better, I’ll probably somewhere else, not in Melbourne. It’s always sad to picturize a goodbye.
I see the sky outside Irene’s window pane, it is still grey. The traffic was very slow in the Cumberland Street. They look like matches boxes in a row, moving slowly. The new building in front of the nursing home is standing there, grey and maroon, formal and neat. With an ad board in front of it, ready to be sold. It took only 3 months to build a building as big as that down here. I looked at the sky again, not much changed. I hope it’s not gonna be raining, I’m stuffed with this stomachache, have no strength for running. Not with a pair of sneakers, moreover with a pair of 3 centimeters height boot. A call for lunch from the carer is coming. Irene must go to dine at the dining room. I said goodbye, get my coat and properly covered my body from crazy Melbourne cold wind outside. I left the nursing home building. It is strange; I just realized suddenly, why the grey paints? To indicate that life is withering inside the box? The designer could have thought of something better. I buttoned my coat tightly. The wind gets colder, don’t let an inch hole on your clothes. I walked faster to the bus stop. Yeah, fifteen minutes more to wait. What can I say? I can’t make it to walk to the next stop but wait here.

Five
An impulse to buy cheap knitwear was failed by the sound of coming tram from the north. Fear of missing a tram on the cold weather beat the prospect of happiness from getting a cheap new clothes. I ran quickly and crossed Sydney Road without minding the red traffic light, there was no car anyway. Arrived at home safe and sound, however. Finding my room was wrecked as usual. Coat spreads on the bed. Training pack does too. Books and papers are everywhere. In addition, it is dark as hell. I haven’t brought down the navy blue summer blanket from the window; I used it protect my bed from the cold breeze that sneaks from the sill of the window glass. I don’t care. I need hot soup and hot drink more than the need to have a neat room right now. Small talks with Helen before peeling garlic and vegetables and boiled the chicken wings and thighs. My chicken soup (and mushroom, and carrots, and snow peas, and macaroni and celery and oh, sausages) is ready. With a small portion of rice that was cooked by Helen, I had my lunch at around 2.30. And get my room in, at the least organized as an ‘organized’ can be defined, or an order if you like. I’m taking down the blanket, freeing up the room from some claustrophobic atmospheres. Some lavender air spray fragrant to drive the garlic and fried fish smell away. Close the door, browsing the “ how to do analysis” on Google. Staring my laptop blankly and writing this piece of article. Jim Reeves gospel songs, Libera songs, flowing in the air from my windows media player... And the sky is still grey as it was this morning, the fig tree is withering outside…the branches are emptier, drying up. I heard a small child cries from the other house..and wondering when this real life movie will come to an end. Just need a crow to scream and that will complete this gloomy 'kind-of-horror-movie' day. I need to be in the tropics. But first of all, I have to finish these chapters. Then I rang tropics, really, I mean home. Mom was talking on the other end about the elder people fashion show at church, the unfair jury, the laughing crowd, and the fashion show itself. Such an amazing story! She was still so passion about anything. That’s mom. She loves life. I’ve been thinking about her these couple of days and I suddenly received her SMS. I bet, God has something to do with connection :). I prayed for that last night.

Epilog
I know what song will be perfect for these things: Regina Spektor's Laugh: God can be funny. Yes He is funny, indeed! I love you Lord, my God. Nothing can be more interesting than You! In all You do, You tell me and we laugh together… Life is beautiful, nothing can make me bored (of You)! You always have fresh ways to give me joy, through some funny small things, through some serious thoughts.

Instead of sending me a nice young guy who gives me a bunch of flower; it’s a small boy who adored me and gave me one.

Instead of sending a nice young guy who asked me “Are you married?”; it’s an old grey man who was eager to know whether I’m available or not and asked me “Are you married?”.

Instead of sending me a nice young guy who gives me a bunch of flower, I bought a bunch of flower for an old lady, and there’s that old man who asked whether I will give him the bunch.

Regina Spektor's "Laugh":
God can be funny
When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious
Ha ha, ha ha

Yes, you are hilarious God!