I am...
... a long time "disease-to-please" sufferer, I will never let you down, no matter how I will hate myself for doing so.
... an incurable Scorpion romantic, who still clings to dusts that are remnants of my heart.
... sick of people insisting that they know what label I should wear. I am simply a girl who loves feminine men and women. I refuse to be known as anything else but a girl.
... a discreet attention whore. I don't stand in the limelight, I just hope someone will hold my hand while in the corner in the dark.
... actually very ugly. What you see are either good camera angles and good lighting or are heavily touched up using Photoshop. I am *surprise! surprise!* quite technology savvy.
... a bibliomania. Any sort of reading material sends me to seventh heaven.
... loving women who sing in heavy, sultry voices, and men who sing through their nostrils.
... me.
Friendster? Of course... jelonbelon@gmail.com
Aku...
... penderita kronis "penyakit-pemuas-orang", dan ga bakal ngecewain kamu, walaupun dengan itu aku bakal membenci diriku sendiri.
... seorang Scorpio dengan romantisme menyesakkan, yang masih saja tidak melepaskan sisa-sisa hatiku yang sudah hancur lebur.
... muak sekali dengan orang-orang yang memaksa aku memakai label yang mereka tetapkan. Aku hanyalah seorang cewek yang mencintai laki-laki dan wanita feminin. Aku menolak untuk dikenal sebagai selain dari seorang cewek.
... pengemis perhatian yang diam-diam. Aku tidak berdiri di bawah sorotan lampu, aku cuma berharap ada seseorang yang akan memegang tanganku di pojokan dalam kegelapan.
... sebenarnya sangat jelek. Apa yang kau lihat mungkin dari sudut kamera dan pencahayaan yang bagus atau hasil pengeditan menggunakan Photoshop. Aku *wow!* cukup cekap teknologi.
... penggila buku. Apa saja bahan bacaan membuat aku mabuk kepayang.
... sedang cinta mati dengan wanita yang menyanyi dengan suara berat, gemersik, dan laki-laki yang menyanyi lewat hidung.
... adalah aku.
Friendster? Tentu... jelonbelon@gmail.com
Aug 11, 2007
Aug 7, 2007
Realisation
Alcohol leaves an acrid taste in your mouth after two days of not using a toothbrush. What is worse is when you have bleeding gums and plaque buildup for... oh, probably 2 years.
For the first time in what seems an eternity, I woke up early in the morning. Right when the adzan* hummed in my ear, so far yet so near. I didn't realize the irony of it awakening me from my dream, a dream I'd remember forever, until now, sober and conscious, typing in front of an unforgiving computer, that shuts down every 10 minutes or so. After which I resumed my sleep.
I woke up again only to the ring of the phone. My phone, the backless, slim and black... She'd win the pageant, if she wasn't so ordinary... unlike me. I consider myself unique, a vanity which serves as a facade for my shortcomings. I am no beauty, however my partners would argue. Have never been... though Narcissism creeps up sometimes and accompanies me in the mirror, so I smile sometimes, a little. I am talented though, being sensitive to a fault, and I learn quick. Learning quick not meaning that I don't repeat my mistakes, no.
The girl on the phone was nervous, and she sounded as if she adored me. Of course she would, she has only known me from my pictures on the Internet friend connection service. The only place where both myself and myself reside at the same time. The ME and the ME of me. Confusing? No, depressing.
I laughed, partly for her nervousness and mostly for my pretenses. I play roles all the time, this time acting as a grown up woman of the world. I know everything, understand everything, yet nothing makes sense. It's like devouring books all your life yet always failing in exams. It may not mean that you've been reading the wrong books, it might just mean that you've been sitting for the wrong kind of tests all along. My head throbbed.
The girl called me again. We talked, we laughed, she insecure about meeting up, she confessing that she might have seen me before, she... called me sayang. An endearment that I have used so much that it probably has lost its proper meaning, but by the falter of her voice telling me she might mean it.
I feel like I have lost all sense of time. Why shouldn't I, when time means nothing but the dread of approaching doom? Rough calculations predict only three days left, before I need to disappear. Yet disappear to where? All I can see is Death, Marriage or Nothing.
I know that to die would hurt, not only me, but people who claim to love me, my family who I fail to understand and who try but miserably fail in understanding me, to a small handful of friends, who at least would probably fake tears out of respect for the jokes I dispensed.
But I feel... towards those who shamelessly throw themselves off tall buildings, who unthinkingly slice open wrists of their own, those who down gasoline, sleeping pills, cyanide , those who might find themselves awake in Limbo, a Hell worse than the blazing fires and repetitive self torture... a feeling very, very close to envy.
Many have promised marriage, many have disappeared, or proven themselves worthless, spineless bastards. A few friends offered to take my hand, gay friends at that, but not in time, not soon enough before I need to go. I have long since embraced the thought, yet too long I have been denied of it, that now I don't see the the point in such an institution unless for legal reasons.
...and Nothingness? Do I really need to elaborate such a complex thing that I myself not understand?
My chest hurts, and I ache for a cigarette. I can't work like this, and when I don't work I won't get any money, and when I have no money, I can't eat, and when I'm hungry, I can't think, and when I can't think, I am not myself. I scoff as I type the word WORK, for I do nothing of the sort. Not what generates income that is, only the private satisfaction of actually finishing something. The only thing dampening the thought is the fact that no one would read it, no one would care, and that the whole world will just carry on as usual.
Ah, the girl called again. This time with a steadier voice, her jokes funnier. It is funny that she would sound so feminine yet claimed manliness. I have never met her before, and I am now intrigued. I used persuasion... come on, it can't be that hard to meet up... but she was resilient with her refusals. It is weird, I have never found butch lesbians sexually attractive, if I wanted masculinity of the feminine kind, I'd rather hump a pretty boy.
Crass? Crude? Yes. I call my lovers Dogs, the Devil Lord, nothing sweet. If I ever was to be any other way, they will know that something totally wrong is going on with me. No Pumpkin and Sugar with me. No Honey Bunny, no Darling, no way. I save for sonnets all precious endearments, there only you will be my angel, and I have a few.
My dream? I feel no need to share. Let bloodied knives rust in the ground they are buried. Murder is sinful, but you won't need to pay in both worlds if you can help it. Even more so if the killing involves not bodies, only souls.
It is already dark, and cold creeps up from between my toes. Sneaking underneath my jeans towards my crotch, where my body keeps most of its warmth... and most sinful secrets. I trust my mouth more than my underparts in keeping my shame locked away. If money is the root of all evil, then my privates are farmers. Ye shall reap what ye sow... yadda, yadda.
She called again! Such a rich catch should not be wasted, should it? Either that, or she is the daughter of the owner of a telephone company. Being which, when you think of it, places her in quite a wealthy disposition. Why don't you want to meet me? Am I not desirable? Then why the persistent calls?
She is a virgin. I was stunned. I am not. She was shocked.
Was I raped, she asked. I am no innocent, I answered.
Was it good with men, she pondered. She shuddered with disgust. I laughed it off.
She is young, she is sweet to me. I am not old of age, but my soul is senile.
She chimed when she could have laughed instead, then hangs up. I am definitely hooked.
The silence she left me with was unsettling, so I switched through radio stations. Static, some folk song, some political talk, then static, more and more static, each humming in different lengths and tones to the trained ear, definitely not mine. Disgusted, I chose silence as comrade, but only for a millisecond. I turned the mp3 player on again, letting it bleat out songs I have repeated so many times that even the oldies has lost all its' nostalgia charm.
Another phone call, this time a male voice gruffly bellowed. No preambles, where are you, are you free tonight... My wallet screamed for attention yet this time the lower lips silenced lust, unintentionally, as nature wins over all arguments he proposed when I declined offers of a night out. Anyway, my head still hurts, increasing even.
I was once asked, what is it about me that keeps men in queue? I believe I have emphasized my lack of beauty and graciousness, so there is no wonder to why they question my many admirers. Not that they are jealous, no, but they fear for me. But it is their fear that pushed me the wrong way. I accept no gratitude nor give any away. Not in their way.
And yet I dream of them over and over again.
Halt! For that way madness lies! But if through madness, freedom reigns, then play on Macbeth!
I mixed my Bram Stoker with Shakespeare. That is not a good thing, I know. I decided that a night out is not so bad. I needed the coffee and cigarettes high, I needed to get away. Even the night air is fresh to the gasping convalescent soul. I said yes to the next call to come my way. It was not the girl, and I have started to miss her.
Where Cinderella raced against midnight, I rushed towards it, embracing the tingle of early morning air against skin padded with moisturizers. Burnt corn on the cob melted as if honeycombs in my mouth. Ravenously, I devoured the sweet bread, all courtesy gulped down in a single gulp of tea cooled by the chilly air, not stopping for a second to offer my companion a bite. Wait, was I not the companion?
I understand men and their wants, or as they put it, their "needs". To me, needing means to cannot live without, and no one has yet to die of an itchy phallus. It might drop off if left untreated long enough, but you'll only suffer, not die. The penis and knowledge differs in that, the more you use your "wand", the faster it loses its magic. Knowledge gets clearer reception with constant replay.
I understand him and his wants, or in his own words, his "needs". His wife is not making it easy, and his lover boy is growing more and more bitchy. In short, he has everything, yet he owns nothing... he is like me. I have grown to like his grumpy sullenness, his silence when he is deep in thought. He loves how I could still make him laugh, when I drop innuendos innocently. I am a Lolita to his Old Man of the Mountains.
It is past twelve and the girl called again. He raised an eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut. I smile every time I answer the phone. Even when I'm crying. He understands that part of me, but I have yet to cry in front of him. Tears are not the means of how I earn a meal. I felt him pat my free hand as he left the table, probably to the restroom.
That abominable headache again! Curses! I grinned and bear it, but soon that too diminished as the girl admonished my staying up late, and that with a man. She called me a slut, which I acknowledged. I answered that it is part of what I am, part of my research to understand life better. I hate... hate the fact that she does not try to understand me, hate that she is younger than I am, hate that she is living a life far better than mine, hate the way she bosses me around... her.
I am a puzzle that she is trying to solve. The girl does not understand that I love men, women and everything in between the sheets or without. She asked me to choose. I refused. It is my life we were talking about. It may not worth much, but it is still mine, at least. And it is ridiculous to tell anyone to stop loving in a world of wars.
She instructed me to go home immediately. I said no. She hung up.
He came back with his face dripping wet, and eyes rimmed with red. A sign that something is wrong. I suggested going back to our own respected places, and he nodded. We left. No more of tonight.
I stood in front of the doorway, waving him goodbye with a smile. He left, and my face crumpled and I cried.
***
2 days have passed since my designated disappearance day, yet here I am, still existing.
The girl came to visit. She is the typical butch. I was disappointed, as I expected at least a higher degree of femininity.
She commented on my lack of housekeeping skills. She disagreed with my decrepit, old fashioned computer. She said I look pretty decent as a femme.
She noticed the empty condom wrapper, and asked, how much are you worth, with a nasty leer.
"Two hundred, could you afford it?"
She slapped me and called me a whore.
The solution smacked me so hard in the face that all that was left of my headache was a continuous buzz. My hand must have pushed the face mirror on to the floor, and I picked up a shard of glass and pushed it up her thigh, where an artery pumps out gushing blood. Majestically red, as she is descended from royalty.
She will survive, the paramedics came soon enough. I love events that end with a bang. Fireworks, ambulance siren, close enough.
Yet here I am, still existing.
*adzan : the call to prayer, Muslim
For the first time in what seems an eternity, I woke up early in the morning. Right when the adzan* hummed in my ear, so far yet so near. I didn't realize the irony of it awakening me from my dream, a dream I'd remember forever, until now, sober and conscious, typing in front of an unforgiving computer, that shuts down every 10 minutes or so. After which I resumed my sleep.
I woke up again only to the ring of the phone. My phone, the backless, slim and black... She'd win the pageant, if she wasn't so ordinary... unlike me. I consider myself unique, a vanity which serves as a facade for my shortcomings. I am no beauty, however my partners would argue. Have never been... though Narcissism creeps up sometimes and accompanies me in the mirror, so I smile sometimes, a little. I am talented though, being sensitive to a fault, and I learn quick. Learning quick not meaning that I don't repeat my mistakes, no.
The girl on the phone was nervous, and she sounded as if she adored me. Of course she would, she has only known me from my pictures on the Internet friend connection service. The only place where both myself and myself reside at the same time. The ME and the ME of me. Confusing? No, depressing.
I laughed, partly for her nervousness and mostly for my pretenses. I play roles all the time, this time acting as a grown up woman of the world. I know everything, understand everything, yet nothing makes sense. It's like devouring books all your life yet always failing in exams. It may not mean that you've been reading the wrong books, it might just mean that you've been sitting for the wrong kind of tests all along. My head throbbed.
The girl called me again. We talked, we laughed, she insecure about meeting up, she confessing that she might have seen me before, she... called me sayang. An endearment that I have used so much that it probably has lost its proper meaning, but by the falter of her voice telling me she might mean it.
I feel like I have lost all sense of time. Why shouldn't I, when time means nothing but the dread of approaching doom? Rough calculations predict only three days left, before I need to disappear. Yet disappear to where? All I can see is Death, Marriage or Nothing.
I know that to die would hurt, not only me, but people who claim to love me, my family who I fail to understand and who try but miserably fail in understanding me, to a small handful of friends, who at least would probably fake tears out of respect for the jokes I dispensed.
But I feel... towards those who shamelessly throw themselves off tall buildings, who unthinkingly slice open wrists of their own, those who down gasoline, sleeping pills, cyanide , those who might find themselves awake in Limbo, a Hell worse than the blazing fires and repetitive self torture... a feeling very, very close to envy.
Many have promised marriage, many have disappeared, or proven themselves worthless, spineless bastards. A few friends offered to take my hand, gay friends at that, but not in time, not soon enough before I need to go. I have long since embraced the thought, yet too long I have been denied of it, that now I don't see the the point in such an institution unless for legal reasons.
...and Nothingness? Do I really need to elaborate such a complex thing that I myself not understand?
My chest hurts, and I ache for a cigarette. I can't work like this, and when I don't work I won't get any money, and when I have no money, I can't eat, and when I'm hungry, I can't think, and when I can't think, I am not myself. I scoff as I type the word WORK, for I do nothing of the sort. Not what generates income that is, only the private satisfaction of actually finishing something. The only thing dampening the thought is the fact that no one would read it, no one would care, and that the whole world will just carry on as usual.
Ah, the girl called again. This time with a steadier voice, her jokes funnier. It is funny that she would sound so feminine yet claimed manliness. I have never met her before, and I am now intrigued. I used persuasion... come on, it can't be that hard to meet up... but she was resilient with her refusals. It is weird, I have never found butch lesbians sexually attractive, if I wanted masculinity of the feminine kind, I'd rather hump a pretty boy.
Crass? Crude? Yes. I call my lovers Dogs, the Devil Lord, nothing sweet. If I ever was to be any other way, they will know that something totally wrong is going on with me. No Pumpkin and Sugar with me. No Honey Bunny, no Darling, no way. I save for sonnets all precious endearments, there only you will be my angel, and I have a few.
My dream? I feel no need to share. Let bloodied knives rust in the ground they are buried. Murder is sinful, but you won't need to pay in both worlds if you can help it. Even more so if the killing involves not bodies, only souls.
It is already dark, and cold creeps up from between my toes. Sneaking underneath my jeans towards my crotch, where my body keeps most of its warmth... and most sinful secrets. I trust my mouth more than my underparts in keeping my shame locked away. If money is the root of all evil, then my privates are farmers. Ye shall reap what ye sow... yadda, yadda.
She called again! Such a rich catch should not be wasted, should it? Either that, or she is the daughter of the owner of a telephone company. Being which, when you think of it, places her in quite a wealthy disposition. Why don't you want to meet me? Am I not desirable? Then why the persistent calls?
She is a virgin. I was stunned. I am not. She was shocked.
Was I raped, she asked. I am no innocent, I answered.
Was it good with men, she pondered. She shuddered with disgust. I laughed it off.
She is young, she is sweet to me. I am not old of age, but my soul is senile.
She chimed when she could have laughed instead, then hangs up. I am definitely hooked.
The silence she left me with was unsettling, so I switched through radio stations. Static, some folk song, some political talk, then static, more and more static, each humming in different lengths and tones to the trained ear, definitely not mine. Disgusted, I chose silence as comrade, but only for a millisecond. I turned the mp3 player on again, letting it bleat out songs I have repeated so many times that even the oldies has lost all its' nostalgia charm.
Another phone call, this time a male voice gruffly bellowed. No preambles, where are you, are you free tonight... My wallet screamed for attention yet this time the lower lips silenced lust, unintentionally, as nature wins over all arguments he proposed when I declined offers of a night out. Anyway, my head still hurts, increasing even.
I was once asked, what is it about me that keeps men in queue? I believe I have emphasized my lack of beauty and graciousness, so there is no wonder to why they question my many admirers. Not that they are jealous, no, but they fear for me. But it is their fear that pushed me the wrong way. I accept no gratitude nor give any away. Not in their way.
And yet I dream of them over and over again.
Halt! For that way madness lies! But if through madness, freedom reigns, then play on Macbeth!
I mixed my Bram Stoker with Shakespeare. That is not a good thing, I know. I decided that a night out is not so bad. I needed the coffee and cigarettes high, I needed to get away. Even the night air is fresh to the gasping convalescent soul. I said yes to the next call to come my way. It was not the girl, and I have started to miss her.
Where Cinderella raced against midnight, I rushed towards it, embracing the tingle of early morning air against skin padded with moisturizers. Burnt corn on the cob melted as if honeycombs in my mouth. Ravenously, I devoured the sweet bread, all courtesy gulped down in a single gulp of tea cooled by the chilly air, not stopping for a second to offer my companion a bite. Wait, was I not the companion?
I understand men and their wants, or as they put it, their "needs". To me, needing means to cannot live without, and no one has yet to die of an itchy phallus. It might drop off if left untreated long enough, but you'll only suffer, not die. The penis and knowledge differs in that, the more you use your "wand", the faster it loses its magic. Knowledge gets clearer reception with constant replay.
I understand him and his wants, or in his own words, his "needs". His wife is not making it easy, and his lover boy is growing more and more bitchy. In short, he has everything, yet he owns nothing... he is like me. I have grown to like his grumpy sullenness, his silence when he is deep in thought. He loves how I could still make him laugh, when I drop innuendos innocently. I am a Lolita to his Old Man of the Mountains.
It is past twelve and the girl called again. He raised an eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut. I smile every time I answer the phone. Even when I'm crying. He understands that part of me, but I have yet to cry in front of him. Tears are not the means of how I earn a meal. I felt him pat my free hand as he left the table, probably to the restroom.
That abominable headache again! Curses! I grinned and bear it, but soon that too diminished as the girl admonished my staying up late, and that with a man. She called me a slut, which I acknowledged. I answered that it is part of what I am, part of my research to understand life better. I hate... hate the fact that she does not try to understand me, hate that she is younger than I am, hate that she is living a life far better than mine, hate the way she bosses me around... her.
I am a puzzle that she is trying to solve. The girl does not understand that I love men, women and everything in between the sheets or without. She asked me to choose. I refused. It is my life we were talking about. It may not worth much, but it is still mine, at least. And it is ridiculous to tell anyone to stop loving in a world of wars.
She instructed me to go home immediately. I said no. She hung up.
He came back with his face dripping wet, and eyes rimmed with red. A sign that something is wrong. I suggested going back to our own respected places, and he nodded. We left. No more of tonight.
I stood in front of the doorway, waving him goodbye with a smile. He left, and my face crumpled and I cried.
***
2 days have passed since my designated disappearance day, yet here I am, still existing.
The girl came to visit. She is the typical butch. I was disappointed, as I expected at least a higher degree of femininity.
She commented on my lack of housekeeping skills. She disagreed with my decrepit, old fashioned computer. She said I look pretty decent as a femme.
She noticed the empty condom wrapper, and asked, how much are you worth, with a nasty leer.
"Two hundred, could you afford it?"
She slapped me and called me a whore.
The solution smacked me so hard in the face that all that was left of my headache was a continuous buzz. My hand must have pushed the face mirror on to the floor, and I picked up a shard of glass and pushed it up her thigh, where an artery pumps out gushing blood. Majestically red, as she is descended from royalty.
She will survive, the paramedics came soon enough. I love events that end with a bang. Fireworks, ambulance siren, close enough.
Yet here I am, still existing.
*adzan : the call to prayer, Muslim
Aug 3, 2007
Poetry is for Romantics
Poetry is for romantics,
for who else
will shed inky tears
for the suffering of others
when they cry naught?
for who else
will shed inky tears
for the suffering of others
when they cry naught?
Aug 1, 2007
untitled
Kau bilang bulan
yang kau lihat
di balik awan malam
Yang kubilang kulihat senyummu
bermain dengan perasaan
Kau bilang bintang
yang kau dengar
berbisik senandung rindu
Yang kubilang kudengar sendumu
becampur ketawa haru
Kau bilang sayang
yang kau rasakan
waktu kukecup kau pelan
Yang kubilang kurasa jantungmu
berdetak di dadaku... sejalan.
yang kau lihat
di balik awan malam
Yang kubilang kulihat senyummu
bermain dengan perasaan
Kau bilang bintang
yang kau dengar
berbisik senandung rindu
Yang kubilang kudengar sendumu
becampur ketawa haru
Kau bilang sayang
yang kau rasakan
waktu kukecup kau pelan
Yang kubilang kurasa jantungmu
berdetak di dadaku... sejalan.
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