The Shrink Alternative

Selir

2011-08-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

"Kisahkan padaku tentang istana".

"Apa kau mau aku mendongeng?" tanyaku.

Anak itu menatapku dengan anak matanya yang hitam pekat. Menakutkan, seperti aku bakal terhisap masuk ke dalamnya. Petanda dia sedang merasa tidak senang, dan dia paling tak senang kalau merasa dipermainkan.

Aku menghela nafas panjang. Keluar bunyi seperti dua besi karatan bergesek dari batasan bibir atas dan bawahku.

"Cerita yang mana pula kali ini?"

Dia mendongak dengan tersenyum ke langit yang warna birunya tersulam abu-abu perak dan oranye aprikot, tanda sore yang makin menjelang, dan mungkin hujan. Kain sarung dengan motif ganggang patah yang lemas menggantung diantara kedua lututnya menari di antara jemarinya yang mungil. Ekspresinya bahagia seperti seorang kolektor buku yang terkurung sendirian di dalam perpustakaan, dan dia dikelilingi milyaran buku-buku cerita di dalam benaknya sendiri.

Aku menunggu dengan sabar. Dengan anak ini tidak ada kata buru-buru. Kenangan-kenangan itu juga tidak tergesa-gesa ingin aku mengulangnya. Bukannya karena pahit, justru keindahannyalah yang menyesakkan.

* * *

"Akan aku bawa kau pergi dari sini".

Cahaya kuning pucat matahari yang masuk lewat jendela terbuka meminjamkan hangatnya buat aku dan dia. Aku yang duduk di hujung ranjang dengan tangan terlipat, memeluk dadaku yang telanjang, mencoba untuk tenang. Perbahasan ini bukanlah untuk yang pertama kalinya.

"Badanku mungkin lepas, tapi kenyataannya jiwaku di sini, untuk mengabdi," balasku.

"Cobalah kau mengerti, kita sudah sampai di sini berjuang. Karena apa?"

"Kenapa tidak kau saja yang coba mengerti?" Suaraku parau menahan lengkingan emosi.

Aku mengenalnya baru-baru saja, tetapi cukup kenal untuk tahu kalau dia tak bakal terusik dengan nada bicaraku yang tak sopan. Edukasi yang dia terima memintanya untuk memperlakukan aku sederajat dengannya, tetapi juga mengajarnya untuk memaklumi perbedaan intelek di antara aku dan dia.

Dia meningalkan meja dengan tumpukan kertas dan buku menggunung, menghampiriku dari belakang dan merangkul pundakku. Warna putih kulit tangannya seperti bercahaya, jernih dibandingkan kulitku yang legam. Nafas lembutnya menggelitik leherku, menghantarkan sejuta sensasi ke sekujur tubuh. Rambut dengan warna jerami padi, dibiarkannya tergurai melintasi dadaku, seperti muntahan cairan emas menuruni bukit-bukit lumpur.

Aku menerima bibir pucatnya, melimpahkan merahku di kulitnya yang tanpa warna. Tanpa sadar air mata dia dan aku menyatu di pipiku. Kasur mendengus malas menerima beban tubuh kami yang merebah.

* * *

Gerimis dengan gemulai menyampaikan pamit. Tetes-tetes air langit turun santai menimpa rambut hitam aku dan Dani. Hujung ombak sampai di bangku bambu kami, menolak kaki-kaki kami yang kecil, seperti menyuruh lekas-lekaslah pulang.

Pantai ini sahabatku, dan selayaknya sahabat, kusimpan cerita-ceritaku disini. Selayaknya sahabat, aku padanya kangen sekali. Selayaknya sahabat, hatiku berat untuk berpisah lagi.

Tangan anak itu yang dalam genggamanku terasa hangat dan lembap. Jari-jemarinya menggeliat resah, mengingatkan aku akan keberadaannya. Mengingatkan aku kalau aku masih punya yang lain untuk menemaniku.

Dani tersenyum manis ke arahku, dan aku membalasnya. Mungkin tidak semanis polosnya senyuman seorang anak kecil, tapi senyumku ini pernah membuat orang-orang menggilakannya.

* * *

Bahuku berat sekali rasanya dengan adanya tangan besar laki-laki itu menumpang singgah. Punggungku pegal menahan duduk tegak di kursi kayu jati berbalutkan baldu merah. Paru-paruku menahan ketatnya korset hitam yang menutupi kelancangan kebayaku.

Tapi senyumku tetap aku pertahankan. Terpaksa aku pertahankan di hadapan lensa kamera dengan blitz-blitz yang menyilaukan mata.

"Senyumlah. Tetap tersenyumlah. Cuma tinggal sebentar lagi selesai."

Pernikahan adalah kekonyolan. Semua formalitas sandiwara buat menutupi sebuah kekacauan. Memaksa aku untuk tersenyum di bawah topeng menor bedak, gincu dan emosi semu. Untungnya ini bukan acara resepsi, cuma pemotretan buat dipajang di ruangan bertamu, buat membuktikan kalau aku adalah miliknya.

Tidak bakal ada yang namanya pernikahan buatku.

Tapi tetap saja aku jadi yang dia punya.

Aku dan anak laki-lakiku satu-satunya.

* * *

Welcoming Back My Blog

2010-10-02T20:55:00.001-07:00

I've been on hiatus for too long now, and I am thinking of moving to wordpress, but there are too many memories on here. What do you think?

Just another day...

2008-12-29T16:48:00.000-08:00

I can't find my tweezers.

I bought one of those electrical tweezers but they were shite. Give me back my manual tweezers.

Anyone coming for my housewarming cum new year's party better RSVP fast. I'll be serving jell-o shots in a bowl and mini cheesecakes and I need to know how many to make and how many beers to buy (yes, only for you greedy alcoholic bastards! I friggin' hate the taste and smell of beer.)

I have a hunch we are in for a very memorable night.

My own Nintendo DS Lite!

2008-11-04T02:56:00.000-08:00

I know my wishlist said I wanted a DS2, but that seemed to take forever. So, yeay for me.

Did I mention that I am now the proud owner of a T700 Sony Cybershot?

I love my job.

From One Black Sheep to Another (In memory of Ahmad Marzuki)

2008-10-25T23:22:00.000-07:00

because he told me he loved. Not in his own words though. But it wasn’t me he loved in specific, it definitely wasn’t his family, but he loved nonetheless. That’s why his heart broke to pieces smaller than mine did. That’s the reason he bled more furiously than I did. That’s the simple fact why he left Us like he did.

    He wasn’t always a shadow when I first knew him. He was flesh and blood, when they allowed him to be. He used to be a kaleidoscope of which I ran through the sun to refract the many harlequin patterns upon my face. He was my friend, both real and imaginary. Real, because we shared the same interests in colors and sounds. Imaginary, because I didn’t get to see him much and because they won’t let him be that way. It’s funny how They fed him cheese and did not expect him to grow into a rat.

    And he was a man-rat alright. He stole, he plundered, and he hid in dark corners. Timid, sly and crafty, but he was nevertheless a dignified rat with blood red eyes. He used to sniff around me for favors that I couldn’t give out at that time. I was too young.

    Didn’t I tell you that he played the guitar magnificently? He lured all the wannabe little band boys like the flute player enticed the little rats of Hamlin, into the glittery dreams of rock stars and giggling groupies. He told every story that could possibly start with the G chord. I hung around because I wanted to be baited along, but I was a girl. Girls do not have dreams; they live the dreams of others. I guess his parents must have wished for a daughter.

    His parents were not military, and do not believe in ruling with birch wood canes (unlike my own parents). His family lived a quiet, country life. Simple and serene. Then his mother died (this may or may not affect him, I didn’t get a chance to ask). He was then sent abroad to study, and he came back with a sense of change. No one could pinpoint the exact time this transformation occurred, not even my Mother, who claimed to care for her little brother so much.

    But the only boy in the middle of five sisters, he had always been different. Where they were rambunctious, he was quiet. Where they drowned themselves in mathematical and scientific figures, he was busy dipping his fingertips in paint. Where they were busy getting themselves married off, he stayed silent in his solitude. I guess he already found it pointless trying to fit in.

    The cookie cutter world has sharp edges, and he must have been cut badly at times. An unfinished degree in a family of academics does not go too well with society. Especially within the intricate tapestry of strict middle-class Asian families. His eyes were always half-open, or half-closed I guess. I prefer the thought of him squinting through the bright shiny people he meets all day. It’s not that I don’t think highly of him, but I prefer imagining him as a low-life. Lovable, but a low-life nonetheless. That way, we would at least be on equal footing. You see, I myself am a low-life.

    I crawled through the ditches too. I stole, but from the wallets of men whom I gave opportunity to rummage through my own bearded purse. I plundered the hearts of many. And I’m still hiding in a dark corner. At least he’s with the light now, maybe not basking in it, but close.

    They told me he was crazy, but I envy the crazy. The crazy always seem to have more fun. To run around freely in that empty place you call your mind. He was my mentor in terms of rebellion. Although I believe his acts were not entirely intentional. I know mine aren’t.

    I guess his hurt was very much intolerable. But even if he showed it, I wasn’t there to witness it. I was too busy surviving boarding school. He was busy being passed around from one sibling’s care to another. It wasn’t surprising that he would choose to flee such a life. I assume he had the same amount of self-love that I had. Not enough to prevent ourselves from being destroyed, but enough ego to allow only our own hands to do the destruction. But They always brought him back, to pass him around again. And again. And again. And again.

    He led a colorful life, he was a Dali canvas full of mishaps and misshapes that terrifies but leaves one addicted. Yet I only remember him later on as a gray blob. A sad mass with no color, as he sits with a blank stare on the front porch, all sense of direction lost. This was after I learned about the color red that spurts periodically through me. This was after I caught my young cousin referring to him as ‘that ungrateful motherfu-r’; I had to stop myself from listening to such infamy and from swinging the six-year old from his limbs and throwing him into the ocean. How dare the little monster! How dare his parents teach such a thing! I kept silent though.

    But now I stop and think, and curse myself for my lack of empathy. We black sheep should have flocked together. I should have defended him. But I was young and thought I knew everything. And I wasn’t as black back then, maybe off-white or light gray. So I probably thought highly of myself.

    But still he stared out. This man whom they say has no respect, no love, and no life. It was the period where he started turning into a shadow. I was a self-righteous teenager and… he had a tattoo on his left arm! It showed one day, accidentally through his white shirt wet with rain, and I remember glancing with wonder, too shy (or afraid?) to ask about it. It was rude then to ask your elders such imposing questions… and I guess I must have had a crush on him back then.

    He was frequently seen dressed in white attires afterwards, and They all applaud this as a positive transformation, albeit with much skepticism. But the brightness of white only made his grayness more apparent. I was saddened. My prism has broken into pieces, and I didn’t have the guts or the glue to fix it up.

    I don’t blame the drugs for his demise. I blame Them, who are ignorant in their kindness, who took away the drugs, his only source of blunting away hurt. And I know he hurt a lot. They all think addiction is as easy to cure as a headache, but I know that they’re wrong. I didn’t drop out of medical school after four years for nothing, and I know things that my classmates who graduated cum laude don’t. I know pain.

    They make pain sound like an abstract thing, these medical school lecturers. They talk of anesthetic procedures and morphine. They mention excisions and excavations. But they don’t talk about the pain that I am familiar with. They only discuss the different nerve endings and degrees of paralysis.

But I understood pain. He embodied pain. I am pain. He and I, we walked hand in hand with pain. Pain was our friend, but a cruel friend whose jokes sometime go out of hand. And unless you’re strong and brave enough to face up to it, the pain’ll cripple you. Hence, the drugs.

    I was lucky that my drug was sex. It doesn’t leave a bad effect if you leave behind matters of the heart. The advantage of being a girl is that my drug comes free and sometimes with rebates. I was unlucky though to have bad-mouthing ‘friends’ who ran an expose behind my back, and who gave my religious father a heart attack.

    Maybe he gave his own father a heart attack too. His father was strictly religious, even more than my own father was. Not that I’m aware of it though. They always manage to keep me in the dark regarding such matters. I don’t believe he died a virgin, but I’m sure he wasn’t as promiscuous as I was. He didn’t show much interest in the opposite sex, and no, neither was he keen about men. He was just… he just is.

    I don’t even know where They buried him, but I see him more often now. The gray of his footsteps guide my trot. His wan smile is in my reflections, his paint marks stain deep beneath my skin. Like kaleidoscope glass, he is fragile and he beats as part of my heart. I shall guard this heart, not because I care for myself, but…

…because he told me he loved.

Dearest Uncle
May you finally find the peace you deserve.

C is for Celebration

2008-10-25T23:18:00.000-07:00

Confetti.
Paper strips in a plastic packet, meaningless until scattered over beaming faces. To shower down like little colorful candies. To mark the existence of happiness here.

I catch a handful and deliberately sprinkle some on my head. They tumble down to my shoulders and some stay stuck between strands of hair. Hullo irony, I’m not happy.

An old lady looks at me funnily, and my face freezes by default into a smile as I bow towards her stiffly. She laughs and gives me a thumbs-up sign. She mouths something that I don’t catch, pointing excitedly towards the two people being celebrated. I nod politely and turn to look away towards the distance, waving to an invisible person, mouthing ‘excuse me’ to the dame and making my way through the cheerful crowd of well-wishers.

Cellphone.
A wireless communication device that breaks the boundaries of privacy. But for just this once, I wish it would ring and bring me out of my being lonely. For a month there have been no calls, no text messages, yet there she is now.

I miss her deeply.

Clown.
He is squatting underneath a stout palm tree by the refreshments section, dabbing away perspiration from his brows, carefully so as not to wipe off the thick white make up. It must be like hell for his skin, trapped beneath the thick layer of gunk day after hot, sweltering tropical day.

I hand him a cup of punch, he looked like he needed it badly. He refuses.

“Not supposed to drink that,” he says and points towards a red mouth slightly agape.

“Can’t you just re-apply the lipstick afterwards?”

He shakes his head. “Got to save, everything’s expensive now.” He frowns, “That was not my point though...”

A woman in a white suit and pinstriped trousers approach us, her sharp heels leaving little dents on the grassy soil. She gives me a fleeting look over and I stare back. She looks familiar and I do not doubt that she feels the same about me. I guess she must be a friend of the bride. She makes full attempt in ignoring me however, choosing to solely address my companion.

“You’ll be performing in the Hall. Remember, no balloons. The groom is… He wishes for no balloons, that’s all.”

Ha! The groom is scared of balloons! How manly.

I snort and at the sound of sarcasm, the woman all in white tilts her head towards me. This time, recognition dances in her eyes and her mouth forms a letter O. Unnerved, she signals the man to come inside, leaving me with two drinking cups full of liquid mango mixed with squash.

Poor Harlequin! No longer limber now with a family to feed. No longer thrilled at the prospect of chasing Columbine, not even while shuffling tiredly behind one, the golden band circling his finger peeks under the ridiculous ancient frills of long sleeves.

I down the sickeningly sweet juice one cup at a time. Watching their retreating backs, I realize that I still don’t know their names.

Clock.
It ticks its slowest when one anxiously waits. I saw her leave and she has not returned. I am glad that she kept her hair at the length I remember last, the curly locks still hang by the nape of her neck. She is not wearing a dress though, that would be pushing luck too much.

The hour hand points towards three and its longer counterpart is at 7 in a lopsided grimace. Being bored, I make a face too, screwing mine up tightly.

Aghast, it retorts, “At least you’re the one celebrated here. I’m ignored until there is need for haste, and still they look at me with anguish.”

   “How long do you think she’ll keep avoiding me?”

   “It depends. How long have you been ignoring her?”

   “These shoes are killing me.”

   “Ah, I see…” And it falls into its old habit of muttering to itself again.

Tick. Tock. Tick.. Tock.. Tick... Tock…

Cakes.
Angel cake. Because the bride is (supposed to be) fair and virginal. Pah!

Brownies. Low in calorie, for the weight watching ladies and gents.

Cheesecake. Because it’s expensive and reflects the event’s status. For select guests only.

Dumplings. Traditional and finely hand made, also a sign of status.

Egg custards. It’s a Chinese thing.

Fairy cakes. For the young ‘uns.

.

.

.

(Let’s save time here.)

Wedding cake. All three strata covered in white and with sugary rosebud borders. Pink of course, because that is the bride’s favorite color. The miniature bride and groom sneer majestically from a height of 3 meters. I place fingers on my lips and wet them discreetly, and with an innocent flick of the wrist, secure a portion of cream at the tip of my nails.

Lick.

Ugh. So much for being costly, when all you get is cardboard.

Chariot.
The engine hums impatiently and the bouquet of carnations and chrysanthemums quiver silently on the hood that they were placed upon. Personally, I myself would have chosen sweet smelling jasmines. They’re her favorite flowers.

The crowd erupts in a cheer, and I see my daydream scattered in pieces by my feet. I imagine crunching sounds as I tread gingerly across them, every step on the weathered red carpet hurting my heart as the splinters travel through my veins.

I smile and wave a gloved hand automatically around while asking myself: Where is she?

I stop breathing the moment I lay eyes on her. She stands opposite me, in a straight line. She is, as always, beautiful, even in a checkered shirt and black jeans. My hand sticks awkwardly upwards in an unfinished gesture, like a marionette whose puppeteer has gone for a lunch break.

She raises a yellow plastic cup in my direction: a toast. She smiles, but there are no other signs to betray her emotion.

I slide as quickly as I could through the wide open door, tripping over the slippery satin that is my dress. The smell of luxurious leather does nothing to soothe my nerves. The driver, startled by such a rush of movements, peeks nervously through the rearview mirror.

   “Is everything all right, Ma’am?”

I nod shakily. So it has come to this, although she has on countless times denied possible, our relationship reduced to ‘friend’ status, maybe less. I peer through the dark tinted window, braving myself for a last look, but she is already gone.

I sigh, fine mist forms on the glass where my nose rests. My groom joins me on the plush seats, taking my hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. I beam at him appreciatively, and suddenly his lush overgrown beard tinged with straggly strays of gray matters no more. I bring the back of his hand near my lips and kiss the fingers softly. He seems startled at the sudden sign of obedience, but merely smiled. It must be the effect of the car freshener. Lavender calms even the most angered elephant.

Under my breath, I mutter, “I’m sorry.”

   “Eh, what for?”

I shake my head, and say nothing. The power windows roll down, and my thoughts are drowned in the farewell din. The silver limousine rattles on slowly, breaking the group of people in many directions. Life goes on.
At least I’ll be okay.

Cigarettes.
The finely cut tobacco burns beautifully in its blend of cloves. The rolled paper edges curl from white, to ember to black to gray to scatter smoothly downwards as particles of ash.

I am back under the stout palm tree, choosing to stay as close as possible to the drinks. One does get very thirsty in such dry weather. The guests have not begun to disperse, and I’m not yet inclined to leave. The rough bark tickles my back through the thin cotton of my shirt, and I fight a terrible urge to scratch myself in public.

I flick away the spent stub, in an upward motion which lands by the feet of a young girl with her face ghastly made up. She throws me a dirty look, which I reply with a sheepish grin.

I reach into the pocket of my trousers for the filter-tip pack and giving it a slight shake, flick the top open and peer inside. Damien Rice’s pained voice echoes in my head; you gave me three cigarettes to smoke my tears away.

I light another fag, inhaling deeply and blowing out rings of smoke. The smoke must have gotten into my eyes, for the water that runs down my cheek are not tears that I cry.

And slowly I fade, like the spiraling smoke I exhale.

Cheers, darlin’.

November by Azure Ray

2008-10-23T08:29:00.000-07:00

This so captures my desolation essence

NOVEMBER

so i'm waiting for this test to end
so these lighter days can soon begin
i'll be alone but maybe more carefree
like a kite that floats so effortlessly

i was afraid to be alone
but now i'm scared that's how i like to be
all these faces, none the same
how can there be so many personalities
so many lifeless, empty hands
so many hearts in great demand
and now my sorrow seems so far away
until i'm taken by these bolts of pain

but i turn them off and tuck them away
till these rainy days that make them stay
and then i'll cry so hard to these sad songs
and the words still ring, once here, now gone
and they echo through my head every day
and i don't think they'll ever go away
just like thinking of your childhood home
but we can't go back, we're on our own, oh

but i'm about to give this one more shot
and find it in myself
i'll find it in myself

so we're speeding towards that time of year
to the day that marks that you're not here
and i think i'll want to be alone
so please understand if i don't answer the phone

i'll just sit and stare at my deep blue walls
until i can see nothing at all
only particles, some fast, some slow
all my eyes can see is all i know, oh

but i'm about to give this one more shot
and find it in myself
i'll find it in myself
do do do...

Why I Hate My Birthday

2008-10-23T03:27:00.000-07:00

I chose the picture above as the little girl blowing the candle on her birthday cake (or muffin?) looked just like me when I was younger. Waaaaaayyy younger. Make that waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay younger.

The difference being that, since my birthday is at the end of the year, and coincides with the school holidays, I never had the privilage of having friends celebrate my birthday party. My parents made sure that I never was deprived of a birthday cake though, but this is not the point. This desperateness for my birthday to be acknowledged continued until high school.

So I got admitted into a boarding school. Big deal, since my birthday still fell on a holiday anyway. So where some kids got chased around, pelted with eggs and shrieking with laughter, I'd usually spend my birthday, again, with my family. Not that I'm not thankful, I love you mom, dad, sis, bro, but we're talking about a teenager here, and peer acknowledgment ranked high in our list that time.

Even when my birthday was not on a holiday week, I was still made to feel like crap. I managed to get myself included in a posse of friends during the last years of school (half hearted yippee here). I mean, I wasn't really popular for the right kind of reasons, you know? People knew me very well back then, but for things I won't even mention here. Sure, I was in the debate club representing the school and winning things, sure I got pretty decent scores in Mathematics and excelled in English, but well known is not always synonymous with popular, you know?

So back to my high school day when I turned sixteen. It was an accepted fact that the birthday girls would always be called to one of the floors and be pelted with really gross things, but the night would end in laughter and the day after we'd all go out to eat.

Not on my birthday. I should've expected it. No one even wished me a happy birthday. Considering this was a boarding school with 300 and more girls, it was pretty disheartening to wander around school on your birthday with high expectations of at least someone remembering your birthday. And may I remind you, these were the last years of school. And I was quite... well known.

But noooo... I shrugged it off, telling myself that this is one of their "surprise party tactics". They won't forget my birthday, no, not MY posse. We were supposed to be thick as thieves.

Turns out they did remember. I was invited to the topmost floor of the dormitory building. My heart fluttered with renewed hope. I knew my posse won't let me down. I climbed the stairs with a little bit of a skip. I forgot to mention that yes, I did cry before that, alone on one of the more secluded stairs, having lost all hope on humanity.

I was so naive.

What awaited me was not a concoction of eggs, floor and curry powder. Instead, I faced an execution. My dignity ripped to pieces. Accusations flew. I was blamed for being morose and solitary. I was called a snob, a man hater. I waited it out, thinking this was another one of their games. After half an hour of torture, I fled the scene, tears flooding the dam barrier of my sanity. I forgot where I went to that night, but I hid in some corner where no one could find me and cried my eyes out, accompanied by a stray cat that had taken a liking to me. She wasn't really a friendly type of cat, but that night she let me hug her as I sobbed deeply into her fur.

I overcame my birthday phobia as I transcended into Uni world. I had adopted a tough girl persona then, and had vowed to not get close to anyone, ever. I was not going to have my heart broken, ever again. I don't need friends, I kept telling to myself.

I wasn't very good at being true to my word. I ended up being close to a few people, adhering to their moral codes, wanting to be like them. I idolized these people. I celebrated and planned their birthday parties with gusto. Then it happened again. My birthday fell on a holiday month. I was studying overseas then, and had my birthday at home. My parents must've thought that I was old enough, so they didn't arrange for any cakes that year.

We live in a world of technology. There are handphones that could be used to send text messages across the continents, what more within the same country. But no birthday wishes.

I returned to my boarding place overseas. Still no birthday wish. I felt like I'd be asking too much for a birthday party. So I planned my own belated party, I asked these people who I called friends to a dinner. Nothing grand, but I did reserve tables and things. The manager of the diner was a friend of mine and I managed to secure discounts for the people who'd attend my bash.

Excuses were made and only a handful came that night. My birthday presents for that night consisted of: nail polish, jigsaw puzzle, and a key chain if I'm not mistaken. I cried the whole month of November. It was in mid December when I finally received a "minute" teddy bear from these so called friends. That was it. I wasn't too keen on dolls and girly things back then. So you could imagine how insulted I was to receive nail polish and a teddy bear at that time.

Then a few months (or was it weeks?) later, that the MAJOR BETRAYAL happened. I seriously lost faith in humanity. Until now.

So forgive me if November gives me the blues, it's not just year end depression. I'm sorry that I'm a bit of a bitch when it is this time of year, and my birthday creeps near. I apologize for not being overly ecstatic over your new dress, new hairdo, new boyfriend nearing the month of November.

Because I hate it.

Hamsters Gone Wild

2008-10-21T20:09:00.000-07:00

Hamsters are supposed to be cute, lovable animals that gnaw on lettuce, carrot, or sunflower seed in a way that makes you go "awwww...". At least, those that are up for sale should be quite aww inducing, I think, especially in malls.

Especially in HUGE malls like Carrefour.

Especially when they are tiny dwarves.

I didn't have my camera at that time, or you would be seeing a different picture up there and I could actually say "Lo and behold!". Alas, I witnessed the grossest thing in my life (allow jeng jeng jeng music here): CANNIBAL HAMSTERS!

Tata and I went to Carrefour two days ago, early morning as we didn't have anything better to do, and I needed to buy some arts and crafts supplies. The reason this is only being written now is because I couldn't believe my eyes and had to do research first on the subject. Here, here, and some sicko here. You won't find this subject in Wikipedia!

What I saw were cute hamsters running around and rubbing their faces. Then I realized that only TWO hamsters were running around while the other one is slumped in a corner. Automatically, I thought it was asleep. Then I saw one of the hamsters nudging at the butt of the immobile hamster. I simply thought they were merely playing around.

Upon closer inspection, I was horrified to see that the hamster was actually chewing off the butt of its dead friend. Everybody together now: YUCK! The corpse just lied there, with one eye missing and the white parts of its brain exposed. Then another hamster followed suit, but went straight to the ears of its deceased friend (giving new meaning to brain picking). Worse, they started a game of tug-o-war and sometimes switched positions, as if they were enjoying it.

It seemed that none of the Carrefour staff had noticed it. But the really sick part was the fact that Tata and I both stood there, enthralled at the sadistic side of nature.

We're freaks, really.

The Dream

2008-10-20T20:33:00.000-07:00

I always have dreams of being chased by a group of people. And they are all the same thing, I run, they try to catch me, I run again, I hide, I see them chasing after me, I run again, and then I wake up with a headache. The people who chase me are always *those* people.

Let me explain.

When I say *those* people, I meant the mean people I left back in Uni. The ones who I thought were my friends, but grew this big vineyard and collectively pelted at me the seeds of their grapevines. I confess to not being an angel, but I wasn't left to defend myself, which wasn't fair. It felt like a gang rape, the difference being that I used to enjoy a decent, planned gang rape. And they told my parents, and my dad got rushed to the hospital from a heart stroke. Smooth move, you guys.

Now I don't have face to face Uni, nor do I have face to go back to my parents, whom previously before said event was my sanctuary from all the Uni people's evilness. So I escaped from all of this. Not a clever part on my behalf, but how could I be thinking rationally? Thus leaves me here in this predicament.

Last night I dreamt of being chased again. The twist here being that *those* people are now full-fledged doctors now and I was wandering the corridors of a hospital. I am paranoid in real-life, and this sensation gripped me, even in my dreams, when I noticed that all too familiar face, noticing me, and as she started the chase.

Of course I ran. I ran so hard, that if this was in real life, I'd have collapsed of a beat up lung. But in this dream, I screamed out, "I am not crazy! You are not going to catch me and put me in a mental house!"

Real crazy talk, eh? It makes me wonder whether I have reached my limits of sanity. Or maybe it's just that silly ol' November, playing an early trick on me. Happens quite easily this time of year.

I am a NaNoWriMo Participant

2008-10-15T21:37:00.000-07:00

I am certainly going to try this year. What about you?

My Desert Queen

2008-10-12T17:09:00.000-07:00

She has eyes like the desert
with a thirst for human touch
She has eyes like the desert
And it's why I love her so much

She needs a Nile that runs a mile
And I could give her even more
She has eyes like the desert
And it's her want that I adore

* while browsing for the picture on the right, I found out that 'eyes like the desert was an excerpt from Madonna's La Isla Bonita. Dang, and I thought that I was original enough!

What A Blast!

2008-10-12T07:59:00.000-07:00

I thought it was FHM's 100 Sexiest Women Night but apparently I got the wrong date. All in all it was fun night, and although Hugo's music sucked that night (new band and all) I enjoyed myself immensely at Embassy. Here are some pics.

Me and Dion

Me and Ian

Dion trying to sell me beer... NOT!

Tata looking up the singer's skirt

Rexona anyone?

Yeah, something fun there

So, anyone who comes over to Yogya and missed Hugo's and Embassy are missing a great deal, I tell ya, especially Embassy. Have to love their ambience.

Bluest Blue

2008-10-11T22:44:00.000-07:00

Buest Blue
You are one of a kind
you are, you are
Will you ever be mine?

Bluest Blue
Deep you seep under my skin
you do, you do
Why can't I keep you safe within?

Can I let go?
No
Can I cry?
I might
Can I escape here?
Nothing else can be my saviour

but
Bluest Blue
You speak louder than a stain,
you say, you say
"I'm LOVE in the form of pain".

Mother Knows Best

2008-10-11T09:28:00.000-07:00

Do do do do

do do do do

do as I say

andcomewhatmay

we will be safe

we will stay sane

do do do do

Suicide Song

2008-10-11T09:22:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you
a little trick for surviving
listen
just close your eyes
and you'll be fine
'coz I'll be singing a lullaby

Keep your eyes closed
and keep them shut tight
listen
it's not pain, so you need not cry
and I'll be singing a lullaby

hmm... hmm... hmm...
listen to my lullaby
hmm... hmm... hmm...
this is not goodbye
hmm...
hmm...
hmm...

My own set of Tarot Cards

2008-09-28T05:40:00.000-07:00

I am still missing a few more Major Arcana Cards (Judgment, Strength, Temperance, Chariot, Hanged Man, Hierophant) but believe me, I'm working on it.If anyone has any suggestions, or comments, do feel free to drop a word.

Notice the rainbows? Yeah, they're kinda gay, no? Haha. These are for my upcoming book, which I will be collaborating with a friend. Even if the book does not work out, I'll be keeping these for my personal collection. So if you want your own set, tell me and I'll have them printed out for you too, for a cost of course.

Update 2 October:

Some people have asked whether I designed these cards by myself, and the answer is: YES! I used CorelDraw for these. Right now, my computer is experiencing breakdown and until that malfunction is fixed, this project shall have to wait.

List of things that I HATE:

2008-09-25T07:50:00.000-07:00

1) Bright Eyes, I hate you guys SO FRIGGIN MUCH, because you make me laugh and cry at the same time. Sometimes the feelings conflict so much, that I can't manage any emotion, and I spontaneously combust while hearing your songs, and it's not good 'coz I listen to your songs at work. That goes the same to you too, Mr. Damien Rice. Oh, and Azure Ray, thank God you guys aren't a band anymore.

2) Movies that make me cry, the fact that I have to return you completely in one piece to the rental place is the only reason I'm not shredding your shiny discs to pieces. Granted, you are all made up of great titles, and I am practically a crybaby, but I can't help wanting to hurl you (Juno, The Bubble, The King and Clown, My Father, Mere Naam Joker, etc.) towards a static wall.

3) Story ideas that don't finish themselves in my head, and stubbornly won't complete themselves when in writing. I mean, why even bother filling up my head with your presence? What's the point? I'm depressed enough, do NOT add to the torture.

4) Computer viruses, cause I use my computer a friggin lot amount of time, thankyousoverymuch.

5) Self-righteous people who think they know everything and think that they're doing actions that are for the GREATER GOOD. Whose good are you talking about, cause obviously you definitely don't have me in your utopian picture.

P/S: I don't HATE "you guys" anymore, that's for sure. Because I believe there should be a stronger word.

Need help for this short story too

2008-09-14T07:09:00.000-07:00

Soul Seller

The crows crow mightily, black birds on thick black wires that loosely stretch for miles between tall metal poles. They smell the stinking flesh, both of rotting animal carcasses and of decaying human hearts. The people who are but mere specks in a bird’s eye view, bustle and hustle in the small marketplace nestled in the heart of a busy city, thinking themselves with errands more important than the other person.

The bird brained crows know better.

Within the push-and-pull, a young man stands erect, withstanding every shove, ignoring every irritated glare. He holds a box that hangs by a sling from his shoulders and within it, lidded bottles clink and rattle with every shake he makes. People with a higher degree of patience and gifted with a wonderful sense of humor smile privately as they imagine the thumping of a tambourine while elbowing past the young man.

There are fish up for sale, fresh vegetables, and pots and pans. The wet produce drip moisture upon the black tar, producing puddles black and thick. The oil leaks from motorcycle engines and tall barrels, creating puddles with rainbow colors reflected. The many different puddles release different pungent smells as they are stepped upon by the many different feet.

The young man sells souls. His is a puddle of perspiration that hangs by the brows.

A fat woman waddles and cuts through the thronging crowd, carrying a rattan shopping bag, her big unshaped breasts encased in a too tight shirt rest on top of her groceries like an object from a Dali painting.

She pushes forward with her purchase placed forward like a battering ram. The young man winces as she steps on his toes in her haste. He imagines ligaments tearing away as the sharp wooden heel of her platform shoe digs into the skin clothed only in rubber sandals.

The young man tilts to the side, maintaining balance momentarily lost to the searing pain. The box shakes dangerously, and a jar falls down to the tar, breaking into a million pieces. The nicer people stop to stare, the mean ones glare, but nobody offered any help, as if they don’t dare intrude the young man’s personal space.

The young man looks in dismay at the glittering glass shards, but simply shrugged and continue standing resiliently, squinting against the sun rays that peek through corrugated zinc roofs.

The traffic trickles through as people gingerly step around the diamond disguises scattered, brilliantly refracting light, like precious gems. The young man unapologetically peddles his wares, silently and with his back straight. He is deaf to the mutterings and the cursing of the strangers around him.

A shopkeeper emerges from his stall,

I need another porn star here...

2008-09-14T06:54:00.000-07:00

...for this short story that I can't seem to complete yet. I don't like the last painting, do you? So if anyone has any idea on who should be on the last portrait, do tell me.

Oh, and try guessing the pornstars, whoever got them all right, will get something special from me.
Plain Portraits of Popular Pornstars

…was the name of the attraction, and all hell broke loose. Young midgets came forward with palms plastered in fake ID. Young men came forward bearing eyes of glass. Young ladies came forward with their faces averted and mouths that run. The old came forward with grinning Botox masks. But only a select few were allowed in.

Inside the tent, the ringmaster is resplendent in stars and stripes and blows bubbles in the face of the spectators. He laughs and roars as the crowd boos him off. He crows pompously on a wooden pedestal painted blue. He picks a clown by the scruff of the neck and shakes him until the powder, the rogue, the wig, the nose, and the gloves all fall off. The clown’s painted grimace rights itself into a smile as he picks his properties up and cradles it like a precious baby.

Down the cheeks of those who watched the spectacle rolled big fat tears. A cannon blows and the super flying stunt man throws down red paper kerchiefs as he sails out of the tent and across the skies, never to be heard of again.

The rotund ringmaster invites the snake lady in and she slithers and slides under the careful eyes of her pythons. The reptiles majestically bow to the crowd as the snake lady curls into a briefcase and stays there, blinking stupidly at the crowd.

The crowd cheers as the snakes drag the briefcase backstage and they are then ushered into the next tent, to see the

First Portrait

She named herself after a continent where spice enticed the colonization desire in pale-skinned men. And how appropriately so. For the men turned red as lobsters when they invade her bountiful hills, tasted the fluid from her creamy rivers and came by the maddening tinkle of her laughter.

She is the lush lands.

She is the great goddess.

She is shivering in bed, weakened by feverish despair. The Prozac pills are scattered on the floor, its container long since rolled under the bed. She makes a mental note to eventually pick them up, it won’t do if the children would come in and pop one into their innocent little mouths. God knows she does not need another death.

Not hers, of course, she is probably unaware that the people from this side of the world have already mourned her departure. Gossip spreads like wildfire, and the disease they associate with her said demise is a popular one regarding her former occupation.

Anguish washes over her again in a sudden wave that crashes upon her conscience. She tells herself that there is no more room for crying, but still the tears pool by her eyes rimmed dark by the salvation she tries so hard to deny.

The evenings sun’s orange streaks through the window blinds of her room, illuminating a nipple, uncovered and bare.

The women sniff disdainfully, apparently unimpressed. The ringmaster enters the tent to signal the end of the show for this tent. He takes out a silver cane and knocks out a guest by giving him a hard blow, smack on the forehead. One of the clowns carries the unconscious man by his ankles, cursing all the way as he heaves and pants.

Someone from the back shouts for a refund, but the ringmaster only smiles serenely. “Patience comes to those who wait,” he says as he shoves the people to the entrance of the next tent, where waiting for them is the

Second Portrait

O, Mary, conceived without sin,

pray for us who turn to you. Amen.

When exactly was the last time she prayed? She knows the words of the bible by heart. Still remembers vaguely the lilting rhythms of the novena. A silver cross still dangles by a thin chain from her slender neck, for the sake of fashion of course, but a symbol of her faith, no less.

She stands in queue behind a long line of middle aged housewives, waiting for her turn to have her groceries rung. None of them pays the slightest attention to her, famous as she is. She is not afraid of overhearing herself being badmouthed; this is a country where emotions are kept discreet, at least not in your face.

She flicks open her clamshell cell phone, while thinking of what to cook for dinner. She imagines sweet curry, piping hot and its bright yellow a beautiful contrast to the whiteness of rice. Sugo-i ne. She giggles to herself, like the young girl that she is.

The line moves slowly, and she pushes her trolley forward with an elbow. Her shopping items include chicken breasts, potatoes, some herbs and a dozen eggs. She believes that not even a novice can go wrong in the kitchen with eggs around. Eggs are very useful, as she once mentioned in one of her videos, albeit with intention of mild innuendo.

There is a new text message on her phone, from her production house. It says: That gaijin producer is still adamant with his offer. What say you?

She pouts, and swiftly typed in a curt No.

She has gotten numerous offers similar to this, and it’s probably because of the hint of Caucasian in her face but people could still easily compare her physique to the tight, exquisite body of Eastern concubines.

This pearl still and will always belong to the Orient.

The men exeunt from the tent, all groaning. They shake their heads and pull at their hair. They beat the ground with clenched fists until they were raw and sore. A woman dressed as a peacock carries round a tray of refreshments at a dollar each. She smiles, and smiles, and smiles until her gums dry off and fall into little pieces at her feet. She carefully sidesteps and collects the pink pieces into a small pink purse.

The crowd makes way for the ringmaster, careful not to create another casualty. He simply points with his silver cane towards the entrance of another tent which contains the

Third Portrait

He is bigger than life, at least the parts of him that the industry considers vital.

He is a legend in his field, and has been called the stallion in many occasions.

He is confident that he is still as bright as the star he shares his name with, even with a receding hairline.

And like his male colleagues, his story is short and it ends here.

“Did you guess?” whispers someone from the small assembly. There is only an uncomfortable shuffling of feet as the people plod on glumly. “Are we supposed to?” was the reply, the loud voice of a woman. She sounds cross.

The ringmaster joins her, linking her arm with his, and beams most pleasantly.

“Oh, darlings, darlings. Do be a little more light-hearted, please. This is just the beginning isn’t it? This is not high art, definitely not at its best… or worst.”

Somewhere at the back of the gathering, someone breaks wind and the whole crowd breaks into hysterics.

The ringmaster turns suddenly around, this time looking fierce and wild, his white hair on end. He begins spewing infamy at the top of his lungs, lunging randomly at the crowd with his now infamous cane. A clown comes in with a somber teenager in a duck suit and carries the ringmaster away by the armpits. They dodge the sharp, heavy point of silver expertly, without betraying any trace of emotion.

“You are all idiots, you hear me? This here, this is entertainment. Carefully constructed and of best viewing pleasure! You dare mock me? You dare? You mock! Pigs! Swine! Muttonchops in the mouth of vegans!”

The crowd murmurs. “At least he still thinks of us as vertebrates,” braves one man and the others nod in ascent. They shuffle voluntarily into the next tent, to at least catch a glimpse of the

Last Painting

She faces her cupboard filled with barely-there clothes, and strokes them sadly, one by one. She had an empire built on the fantasy these clothes enticed. She thought she was happy.

She is happy no more. Or is she?

Sure they mocked her acceptance speech at the annual awards, sure they looked down upon her as she walked resolutely away, award in hand. Nature sure deals a tricky card for women. What liberated her is deemed unlucky by her fellow colleagues and by her fans.

She bites her thin lower lip and picks up the clothes by their hangers. She flings them one by one onto the bed, slowly at first but soon gaining momentum. She fights with a neon blue latex dress that stubbornly refuses to leave the cupboard, choosing to get stuck with a leather half jacket filled with studs, instead. She gives a vicious yank and torn piece of the dress comes out on her hands. She throws the cloth above her shoulders and continued picking out the clothes stealthily.

She appraises the pile of clothes on her bed with a renewed sense of nonchalance and picks up the corners of her tiger print bed sheet, tying them together in a triple knot. She drags the big bundle across the living room which at one time had seemed spacious and was planned that way but now seemed so empty and bare. She won’t have to worry about furnishing it anymore, anyway.

Awesome

2008-09-07T10:30:00.000-07:00

I have always felt like I had wasted four years of my med school, but this totally makes me feel like a complete loser. To all lesbians, take heed, you are carrying a lethal disease and should be cured pronto. Not by a psychiatrist, but through a DIY website.

fucking hillarious.

In a BAD Mood

2008-09-05T22:51:00.000-07:00

This is what you get for being stupid. The blog that I mentioned stating homosexuality is a disease while she fucks people all around the world.

Weird stuff

2008-09-05T21:29:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I blogwalked a bit again and found this and this.

Solves all your problems doesn't it? Mind you this is for adults only, coz it's not graphic or stuff but because only adults get the joke.

GUFFAW!

I don't understand...

2008-09-05T19:12:00.000-07:00

...the compulsive need to write on a blog everyday, not that it's quality crap anyway. Get a pen and a diary, write down your stuff, THEN post it on the blog la weh!

...the need to label some group of people as "sexual deviants" based on their sexual orientation by this woman who invites men to free sex and posts pictures of her breasts on her blog. (I blogwalked a bit). You must be a dude la weh, I'm not buying that crap of us sharing the same form of genitalia.

...the effect of blogwalking through Malaysian blogs on the way I'm reverting back to my pasar English roots -lah.

...why I should be content in receiving sweets when a shop cashier does not have enough change to return my money (I know you have the coins, you lying biatches) but the man who "guards" the parking spot of my motorbike gives me the evil eye every time I try to pay him with sweets.

...why I even bother writing this, I'm not getting paid for this goddammit! But it sure as hell feels good.

...the fact that my clustermaps show that my blog is being read all over the world, but none of them commented on my posts. I don't write super technical stuff here people. Or maybe I should.

...the fact that I am being paid less than my manager who only writes up the schedule and is the stores designer and who is an invertebrate dinosaurus sexist, while I am Admin, Techie Geek, Accountant, Salesperson and Store Nightguard and have to put up with him finding fault with me all the time while he rejoices in talks of porn (loudly) with the Office Boy who is constantly late everyday.

As all you bright people know, only the last point matter.

Hey, lets love the world!

2008-09-04T01:42:00.000-07:00

I was perusing through blogs of friends and found this on Baby's blog. Really made my day. Hope it betters up your day too.

Enjoy!

My First Published Short Story

2008-05-26T06:19:00.000-07:00

...and in Jakarta Post, no less! Woo hoo!

Every name a prayer

By Nabila Najwa | Sun, 05/25/2008 12:01 PM | Bookmark

How do you define an ordinary day? The clouds are tinged with shades of yellow and gray, and march slowly against the blue backdrop of the sky. Ordinary. The sea waves carry the smell of summer girls in sun-drenched sweat. Ordinary.

The gray-gold sand tap-tap-tap dances on coarse little feet beneath my bare calves. Ordinary.

My big brother Jack shares more than just a plate of chips with me, our eyes squinting against the blinding afternoon sun. We laugh, trade jokes and give each other hearty slaps. We act how brothers should. Like brothers. Unusual.

Mother comes our way, calling out to Jack, telling him to please not forget to bring the plate and cups back like last time.

The smile lines on her face quiver in place, as she stiffly instructs Jack to not stay out in the sun too long; Jack has a history of being prone to sun strokes. She manages to ignore the apologetic smile I offer her, and with her curls, still a radiant black with the help of henna, tumbling between the blades of her shoulders, she shuffles back towards the car.

.... for more go here.

Q! Film Festival Jogja 2008

2008-04-17T03:06:00.001-07:00

Kapok jadi publicist! But we'll see whether it will be worth it this year. Come one, come all! More information when you click the poster above.

Hit and run

2008-04-17T02:52:00.000-07:00

When you miss me
I'll be waiting in your wishes
As you embrace him
I'll be there in your kisses
and between the folds of your skin
I'll be the sweat lurking

In your dreams
I'm your wishful thinking
and in your wake
I'm the dawn breaking
and with every step you take
I'll be your biggest mistake

I will be your biggest mistake
Because I hit and run
Oops, is that mess your heart?
I gotta go babe, it's been fun
It's been a ride
It's what you read between the lines
I told you babe
I hit and run

When you call on me
I'll say I love you
and you say you don't believe it
but your body says "I do"
and between both heaven and sin
I'll be your dream come true

Sorry

2008-01-23T22:57:00.000-08:00

To all my fans, I've been busy lately with work (writing, translating, proofreading, etc.) but I'm still fine and alive. Will be writing again no time soon. till, then, see ya!

Ciao

Life on the Street: Transvestites and Trust

2007-10-19T09:54:00.000-07:00

Experience is the best teacher and experiencing life on the streets educates most.

Clichéd as it seems, no one knows of the fact better than Dian, 20, originally from Semarang, trying to make a living in Yogyakarta, a city of students. Being a transvestite does not make her life any easier.

Now a regular in the dark corners of Lempuyangan Train Station, she used to hang around the swimming pool of Umbang Tirta for customers before being chased out by citizens of the neighborhood, for the usual reasons of acting against sinful activities. Dian scoffs at this reasoning with a laugh, “Most of these people saying this and that about my ‘profession’ were once customers of mine.”

Meeting Dian at her place, a small box of an apartment with no ventilation in Tukangan, she looked happy and content.

“The people here are nice, they don’t make a fuss about my sexuality and what I do nights. In fact, the owner of this boarding place frequents my place for a massage, once or twice”. Dian laughs off my remarks of lecherous intentions from said person. “He merely acted out of kindness, as he understands it is the only way I’ll accept his money”.

As if to display his high tolerance towards the minority-based-on-sexuality, the whole first floor of the block is rented to transgenders and transsexuals by the owner, with a male homosexual couple living together on the second floor.

When asked about her heterosexual flat mates, which consists of other street kids, ranging from a mere 15 years old of age to 35, Dian beams a smile. “We are one big family here, taking care of each other”.

Almost as proof of her statement, the room which is nearly cramped up by a mattress, a foldable wardrobe and a fourteen inch television set is then filled by “streeties”, dropping by for a quick chat and a peek at the news. An expected innuendo or two was heard that evening, but all given and received in good humor, as people who have long been in a healthy relationship would.

Another transvestite who answers to the name Brenda, 19, is seen washing very masculine clothes by the well outdoors. In light-hearted spirit she answered my questioning eyes, “You don’t think these are mine, do you? Of course they’re not. These street kids help care for us, and I pay them back by helping them with household chores”.

Brenda confesses of nights when she gets harassed by people and policemen alike, being threatened of abuse both physically and mentally, and how there is always help from fellow “streeties”.

“There would always be people putting on important airs and ganging up on us transvestites, especially when we are alone. And they,” waving a crudely manicured hand towards the two-storied building, “will stop their singing or whatever it is they were doing to help us chase these annoying people off”.

Both Brenda and Dian agree that to reside amongst the “streeties” is the safest and most tolerable way of living. In Dian’s own words, “It is never about the money, it is about being accepted. Especially since we are not considered as first-class transgenders, not with our less than passable looks. It’s the only option before we grow old and ugly, and have to resort to singing and shaking rattles… and living loveless.”

Ahmad Sobir, 19, an art student whose choice of earning his meals is by entertaining diners by the sidewalk of Kali Code, agrees that he and other tenants have no problem sharing an abode with “the girls”. “Besides, they introduce us to their abundant female friends, who are at most times good looking,” says Sobir with a grin.

Sadly, Dian, Brenda and the other transvestite tenants’ happiness were short-lived. During the recent month of Ramadhan, “the girls” were chased out of Tukangan by the local residents.

Their excuse was that the transvestites went aboard by bringing men into the all male residence, and to the all-righteous villagers, the act was beyond intolerable.

What I Am

2007-10-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

I like boys who like boys
who like girls like me
who like them
with their spirits free

I love girls who like boys
who like girls like me
who like them
are inwardly sexy

I like chocolate sundae ice
creams not strawberry
not cherry, and

I like ginger snaps in my
Jack D's
Not funny
but still I giggle
hysterically.

I need girls who like girls
who like girls like me
who like them
heal bruised hearts tenderly

I want boys who like girls
who like girls like me
who like them
will let me be me.

Cinta buat Kita

2007-10-04T23:58:00.000-07:00

Cinta
bukan hanya kata
tapi puisi jiwa

Tapi kau bukan pujangga

Dan aku
hati pun aku tak punya

Buat kita
cinta itu bagai mata uang tak laku.

Buat si Pemabuk Yang Menyanyi Lagu Patah Hati

2007-10-04T23:47:00.000-07:00

Bukan temasya ini
kau
hentilah teriak-teriak!

Dan hening terpecah-pecah
di malam menggelegak amarah!

I am in two languages

2007-08-11T14:19:00.000-07:00

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

Realisation

2007-08-07T03:27:00.000-07:00

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

Poetry is for Romantics

2007-08-03T08:54:00.000-07:00

Poetry is for romantics,
for who else
will shed inky tears
for the suffering of others
when they cry naught?

untitled

2007-08-01T01:43:00.000-07:00

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.

the biggest sin was when I said I love you and meant it

2007-07-27T11:34:00.000-07:00

So you said "Hush,
this won't hurt,
not if you start screaming
it wouldn't," so

"Put that guard down
and let your instincts go
we'll start having fun
because I say so
sweet baby
honey
because I say so."

"Forget all about the blood,"
and I'll focus on this love
as my nails dig into you
I'll be the only girl
you ever think of
as you say

"Put that guard down
and let your instincts go
we'll start having fun
because I say so
sweet baby
honey
because I say so."

Please.
Don't.
Stop.

"As you say so
sweet baby
honey
as you say so".

Of whipping and being a dominatrix

2007-07-27T11:28:00.000-07:00

Everything here might or might not happen... depending on how wild your imagination is...

As the usual rendesvous', they all started with the Internet Relay Chat Service. Accepting invites to various rooms, like playing a game of hide and seek. Peek-a-boo, yoohoo... here I am, talk to me. Feathered in absurdly fashioned nicknames, vying for attention... pick me, pick me... talk to me... Shamelessly flaunting things that you may not have... oh of course... My breasts are mountains, come play within these valleys... or... Of course I could tie you up... maybe... No, I'm free of STD's.

Then comes the one savior... the one who stands out from the rest... and catching your eye... then... Let's meet, where are you... Of course, any pictures?... The usual a/s/l questions... Don't you ever get tired of it? Of course you say, but there is the fun of it all... The one who breaks all moulds, the one who doesn't always start their questions with Hey baby, let's shag... not... I love vaginas... never... Who are you.... Never one of these lame people.

Then you find yourself in a car, on a motorcycle, or walking. Meeting strangers, comforting your fears with "a stranger's just a friend you haven't met". Out for sex, camouflaged by dinners, books or trips to the mall... Comfortable without the usual mask you wear for society, but with a mask of impurity. Basking in the glory of not being caught... Laughing away the day... or night... Anticipation of a new adventure soon to come... Between sheets and sins...

Finding yourself being tied up... or tying someone up. Between being whipped or the one whipping. Every slashing sound like a catalyst, rushing between your erythrocytes. Shivering with every little pain inflicted, getting more and more excited with every moan. Every words of pain soothes your own wounds inside, calms your own insecurities... You slowly accepting that you are someone... Bigger, smaller... depending on who wears the collar.

Finally, letting that rush of pleasure passing through your groins. Wanting it to happen again and again... Shamelessly being ashamed, taunting and taunted... Gaining your self worth by losing respect... Licking every drop of your humility. Wasn't that fun? Walking out of the cramped hotel space, bruised but alive. Knowing that what happened was the deepest kind of trust, the loveliest kind of affection ... and finding yourself in front of the blue screen yet again... another adventure unravelling.

untitled

2007-07-27T11:26:00.001-07:00

who knew that I'd love
women and men
and everything in between
the sheets and without it
today.

I have hated and rejected
everything before
you
time stopped still

and none of my blood spilled yet.

Cinderella story (for my mom)

2007-07-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

You with your crown on display
(is it just me or are you smirking?)
am I always this way?
or didn't you beat me hard enough
or tell me how you hated me so much
yesterday?

you who keeps pieces of your broken glass shoe,
(and still clings to worn red carpets)
do you want me to be you?
or not go what you went through?
or be myself
but doing what you wanted to?

You when you pause and look ahead,
and forget about yourself for a moment,
or about me
and just be
breathing
you could be so beautiful.

A birthday wish

2007-07-27T11:09:00.000-07:00

Is it okay
if I catch your dreams with my tongue?
(like the snowflakes in winter
remind you of hot cocoa and warm dreams
and stockings woven with love)
your dreams are so beautiful

you are
so beautiful
that angels faint at your feet
(or fall asleep
to be a part of your dream?)

wake up
wake up
wake up

before the rising sun
or you'd be mistaken as one

rejecting a flirt

2007-07-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

Please don't compare me
to the scorch of summer day
(I'm not warming up to your praises)
or to the darling buds of May
I'm not as pretty as you say
(and I am aware)

Please don't tell me
anything about myself
that I cannot see beyond the gilded frames
or behind that twinkle in your eye
glazed by lust
(and probably beer)

I do apologize
but

Please don't bother me
I'm waiting
until another one like you
comes over
to tell me I'm beautiful too
but I'll follow him home
just to spite you

Please don't be angry
I was joking
but

Please leave me
or buy me a drink
and stay away

thank you.

behold the great rubberband

2007-07-27T11:05:00.000-07:00

I am but a rubberband
with a dream of flying far

and

you keep on stretching
stretching
stretching
stretching me

...then I snapped

and you
recoiling by reflex
threw me away.

that girl so sad

2007-07-27T10:49:00.000-07:00

Don't you know?
It's hard not to take you seriously
to bleed by your words
is easy

(do you think before you talk?)

or do you talk without thinking
that people have feelings
or don't you?
do you?

(have you no heart?)

but you wept when he left you
without words he went
maybe he didn't have your vocabulary
(that's what I heard)
or maybe not

or maybe you just don't care.

To the Old Man

2007-07-27T10:34:00.000-07:00

It is just a smile
I told my friends
to the old man
selling pulut cakes
a basketful on his head

I want
to reach out my questions,
and have him answer

I do love stories

So,

Is it just a smile now?
I asked my friends,
when I smile to the old man
selling pulut cakes
to have him smile back at me?

Elevators

2007-07-26T02:28:00.000-07:00

Ever had that rush of tinkering heartbeats, the warm blood slowly creeping up and filling up your facial capillaries, as a beautiful stranger steps into an elevator? Or when everybody gets out of the 2x2 enclosure and all that is left are the both of you? You quickly avert your eyes, and have your attention focused intently on counting the tiles on the floor.

Do you suddenly pray that the elevator goes on forever? You who have never been pious before, do you immediately wish that you frequent the praying mat, just so your prayers would get a special place in God's judgement, just this once? Do you imagine the doors jammed together, and as he sweats wth anxiety, you sweating too, and the scent of fear binds you together? Finding a reason to huddle closer, to lament in the tragedy that befell you.

To feel the stubble of his goatee brushing your forehead, as he comforts you despite his own worries. To feel the hardness of his chest muscles, taut with fear and a result of vigorous workouts, as you lie your head against it. To hear his heartbeat tap-tap-tapping rhytmically with yours. Crushing your breasts against his chest.

Would you imagine him wishing the same thing? Shaking your head, suddenly sad, no of course he won't. He is a marble god, carved by Michelangelo, and you are but the pedestal that he steps on. (Even the thought of being an adornment of his beautiful feet sends you into a feverish glee).

You lifted your head, stealing a milisecond glance towards this Adonis, a payback for stealing your heart. Exchanging his warm smile with your own nervous grin. Wait a minute... he smiled at you??? You start cursing yourself, and imagination runs amok again. Interpreting the smile in many wondrous possibilities. Imagining the upward curve meeting your own dry, chapped and pale lips, slow, seductive and sexy.

Shaking your head again. The more your head is filled with these thoughts, the more your heart is filled with sadness.

And then the elevator door opens. A bright ray of light fills in as the beautiful stranger steps out, right foot first. As the brighter streaks of sunshine washes over him, you noticed his face accessorized by acne, his rather awkwardly stooped posture, his super hairy hands, gnarly and full of calluses. You zoomed your sights on the back of his pants and noticed the bulgeless form, loosely encased in a pair of too high waisted pants, noticing that his ankles are showing from frayed ended hems. Where his behind has no artistic form whatsoever, a mound seems to have formed where you imagined hard rectus abdominis crisscrossing.

He turned around, and his smile still melts you. Your day just seemed better.

What I Type

2007-07-26T02:25:00.000-07:00

SMS the first

This sadness,
i digress... Flows
out of my faith,
of the lack of your faithfullness,
like tears rivering the borders of my hollow cheeks.

SMS the second

U are my lover boy, my adonis, the one in my only dreams. U are mine. Hello, who am i?

SMS the third

I saw how my heart bleeds in his hand,
dripping red moisture...
i command
'freeze thou shalt',
no more pain i can stand.

SMS the last
Alas, but 'tis the black of the shaedows,
it persists,
who am i to insist,
a being as solid...
to not exist?

On What I Write

2007-07-26T02:23:00.000-07:00

They ask me... why do I not write about men? What is it that I fear? With my kind of reputation, I cannot claim to not know men, could I? Not that they know me more than what builds my reputation. For they were the builders, the ones ensuring the facade hides my true self. Do I have to mention that they disgust me so? And so they despise me also. Not that I claim to be any angel, heavens no. That wall I built was only for their safety, don't they know? Why do they bloody their hands tearing it down? Why try peeking in when what you see repulses you so? Why bother digging if not all the way? Your hands are now dirty, why not wash it with my tears? And still you talk away. Why do I not write about men? Why should I leave you, you who make up the story mine? You gold nuggets ready for the digging, ripe apples ready for the plucking, nest of hens clucking, clucking, clucking... pecking at those who are different, insisting that your footsteps are the best when your feet are not even barely clean. Why should I write of a creature devoid of form? For I worship the country, every hills and valleys, every nook and cranny. Unlike you, you city lover, who praises tall towers, proudly standing but crumbles at the slightest quake. My mountains are majestic, why trade them for your so called civilisation? To your buildings, I do not admit defeat. Yet you claim to own my valleys too. I write of the sea, and the smell it reminds me. You see? I write of the life mothering every creature, you talk of the one with destructive nature. You can stay forever under your acacia tree, as the smell it gives repulses me. Though for what little shade it provides, I'd rather burn in the desert heat. Although you will see me running to cool my feet. Why do I not write about men? Why should I, when I am breathing, eating, seeing, talking them? They who see this keep on muttering, "And so she does not write about men, she has become one of them".

The Devil Held Me

2007-07-26T02:20:00.000-07:00

Burning my hands,
while I grabbed your flaming mane,
you are my Belzebub,
my dear dangerous Lucifer,
milking moans out of my mouth.

Surrendering your soul,
as you lay in my loving laps,
you are my child,
my dear delicate son,
drinking out of my desire for you.

Holding hostage everything I own,
my pride, my life, my heart,
you are my lover,
my dear damning Adonis,
and I will treasure you forever.

My Anthology of Poems

2007-07-26T02:18:00.000-07:00

http://www.lulu.com/content/853408

my anthology of poems "WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO PUT ME DOWN?" is out NOW! Get a COPY or PROMOTE it away!!! Exclusive DIY cover design by yours truly for paperback edition.

Him

2007-07-26T02:04:00.000-07:00

Cigarettes
skyscrapers
football and billiards

I love you for who you are
not for what you love
You are what I love
not what I am
and still we don't understand.

Chocolates
stilettos
family and best friends

I must not
change
you
shall not
change
me

They should just let us be.

Emotional Orgasm

2007-07-26T01:58:00.001-07:00

I'm gonna find another baby
Just you wait and see
Just you wait and see
Can't wait forever for your maybes
Gotta let me free
I gotta let you be

Been waiting for so long it hurts
I've got to get away
Can't stand living like a caged bird
And all I've got to say

I'm gonna find another baby
Just you wait and see
Just you wait and see
Can't wait forever for your maybes
Gotta let me free
I gotta let you be

What makes you think you'll win this race
These legs will run
Now here's a fact you have to face
You're no more fun

I'm gonna find another baby
Just you wait and see
Just you wait and see
Can't wait forever for your maybes
Gotta let me free
I gotta let you be

Been waiting for so long it hurts
I've got to get away
Can't stand living like a caged bird
Now all I've got to say, hey, hey, hey

I'm gonna find another baby
Just you wait and see
Just you wait and see
Can't wait forever for your maybes
Gotta let me free
I gotta let you be

Girls' Night In

2007-07-26T01:55:00.000-07:00

girls' night in
(shhh!!! malam kita-kita aja)

cerita oleh
dalih sembiring
nor huda

naskah oleh
nor huda

draf kedua

2008
“GIRLS’ NIGHT IN”

FADE IN

INT. KAFE PINGGIR JALAN – MALAM

Suasana kafe hingar-bingar, gambaran tipikal malam minggu, dengan pasangan dan kelompok yang saling “mojok”, saling menyuapi, bermanja-manja dan berhaha-hihi. Kafe terlihat sederhana dan tidak terlalu mewah, redup diterangi lentera tergantung.

Dua orang cewek, RIA(23) dan JACKIE(32) duduk berdekatan, pasangan yang tidak lazim tapi tetap menyatu dengan crowd yang penuh warna-warni, tanpa terkesan kontras. Yang membedakan mereka dengan pasangan-pasangan yang lain, bukan untuk seisi kafe tahu.

Ria dan Jackie duduk dekat-dekat bersebelahan, dua kepala yang hampir menjadi satu, dimana bibir tidak pernah jauh dari telinga dan melahirkan cekikikan-cekikikan kecil. Kedua-keduanya berpakaian selayaknya wanita umumnya, santai dengan kaos katun, celana jeans dan sendal jepit.

HP yang tergeletak di meja menyala biru terang sebelum berdecit dengan nada dering tanda ada SMS yang masuk. Ria membaca pesan yang tertera, kemudian tersenyum dan menoleh ke pintu keluar, mengangkat tangan dan melambai ke seseorang. Jackie ikut melihat.

RIA:
Sini bo’. Sini sama tante.

Seorang lelaki dengan kemeja biru garis-garis vertikal, celana jeans skinny leg dan tas pink gede menuju ke meja Ria dan Jackie dengan hebohnya, merangkul Ria dengan erat, dan menjabat tangan Jackie. DANNY(25) memesan kopi sebelum duduk berhadapan dengan Ria dan Jackie.

DANNY:
(Ke pramusaji) Crumbly coffee satu!
Ada cerita apa ‘ni? Kayaknya
seru banget... Share dong...

Ria menoleh manja ke Jackie yang dibalas dengan tatapan mesra. Tangan Ria digenggam Jackie, seolah memberi semangat untuk Ria meneruskan kata-katanya.
RIA:
Elo ingat kan say, kemaren dulu
yang gue curhat ma elo?
(Mengusap perut dengan perlahan)

DANNY:
Oh my GOD! Jadi bikin babynya?
Seru! Selamat yaaaaaa...

Mereka bertiga bangun dan Danny memeluk Ria sambil meloncat-loncat kecil. Agak ragu-ragu pada awalnya, Danny memeluk Jackie juga dan dibalas hangat. Danny menyeka keringat yang aslinya tidak ada dari dahinya.

DANNY:
Phew! Terus... (Tergantung)

Kata-kata Danny terpotong dengan kedatangan pramusaji yang menghidangkan secangkir tinggi kopi dingin dengan krimer putih di atasnya.

PRAMUSAJI:
Silakan.

DANNY:
Makasih mbak. (Menghirup kecil).
Aaahhh... (Penuh drama)tenggorokanku
kering baaaaanget tadi.

RIA:
(Menyalakan rokok)
Koq bisa, say? Kebanyakan ngomong kali.

JACKIE:
Ya nggalah... Kebanyakan nyepong...

DANNY:
(Bercanda) Emangnye eke perempewi?

Mereka bertiga meledak ketawa.

JACKIE:
Tadi elo mau ngomong apa?

DANNY:
Apa ya? Oh ya, soal baby.
Donornya emang dah dapat?
Punya gue aja... Gimana?

RIA:
Emang gitu kita maunya.

JACKIE:
He eh. Secara elo kan teman kita.

Mata Danny berkaca-kaca. Kedua tangannya didekap ke dadanya dengan siku di atas meja.

DANNY:
Oh you guys. Gue tersanjung.
...Banget.

Danny mengambil tangan Ria dan Jackie dan membungkusnya dalam genggaman tangannya yang gede. Kelihatan kuku tangannya yang apik terawat. Ekspresinya dibuat-buat serius, sambil menahan ketawa.

DANNY:
Gue janji deh, anak kalian bakal
cucok, pinter dan anggun kayak
gue.

JACKIE:
(Melepaskan tangannya dan ketawa).
Amit-amit jabang bayi deh! Haha!
Ya harus kayak gue ma Ria dong, Danny.

RIA:
Ya iyalah... Tapi kita akuin sih...
Kita nyari genetik femininnya elo, say.
Secara gue ama Jackie kan ga femme-
femme amat.

DANNY:
Trust me deh, kalau anak kalian cewek,
pasti ceweeeek banget dan kalau cowok...
Hmm... buat gue aja. Haha!
(Menghirup kopi) Udah ke dokter?

Jackie memandang Ria dengan bibir menyungging separuh senyuman, mengangkat bahunya dan kepalanya diajukan ke arah Danny, tanda untuk meneruskan pembicaraan. Ria mengangguk kecil.

RIA:
Udah sih... Tapi...
(Terhenti)

JACKIE:
Mahal, Dan. Gila banget.
Berapa juta gitu deh.
Dan itu juga ga harus sekali tanam
langsung jadi.

RIA:
Jadi...

CLOSE UP: Danny mulai memasang tampang cemas dan curiga.

DANNY:
Jadi...?

FADE TO:

INT. KAMAR KONTRAKAN - CONTINOUS

CLOSE UP: Danny masih dengan tampang kosong dan mulut sedikit terbuka.
DANNY:
(Dengan suara datar)
Jadi gue disuruh ngapain ni?

Kamar itu cuma diterangi lampu kuning dengan watt rendah yang tergantung dari siling. Mereka bertiga duduk di hujung sebuah ranjang dengan Danny ditengah-tengah. Selain kasur, perabotan lain di kamar itu cuma berupa lemari pakaian plastik, meja belajar, lemari buku dan dispenser Aqua dengan galonnya.

Sebuah laptop menyala terang di atas meja belajar. Wallpaper desktop laptop memperlihatkan Ria dan Jackie yang berpelukan mesra. Nyala putihnya mewarnai setumpuk DVD yang tergeletak di sebelahnya. Beberapa judul menggoda dengan gambar lelaki-lelaki bertubuh sasa saling rangkulan berpose di sampulnya.

Bahu Danny dirangkul mesra oleh Ria. Tangan Ria yang satunya lagi digenggam Jackie, kedua-duanya terletak manis di atas paha Danny. Ria memakai daster batik dan Jackie memakai singlet dan celana pendek kotak-kotak. Kedua-duanya dengan tampang memujuk. Danny dengan baju sama yang dipakai di kafe.

DANNY:
Kalian nabung aja dulu deh...

RIA:
Uhh... Kelamaan bo’.

JACKIE:
Lagian gue juga dah ga
muda-muda amat Dan. Masa gue dah
mbah-mbah anak gue masih SMP?

DANNY:
Kalau ga ada duit, ngapain bikin anak?
Mau dikasi makan pasir?
Secara pasir juga ga gratis
lho ya sekarang...

JACKIE:
(Suara meninggi)
Bawel elo ah.

RIA:
(Memujuk Jackie) Sayang...
(Balik ke Danny)
Kalau tabungan mah kita punya.
Tapi kalau bisa irit kenapa ngga?
Irit beberapa juta lho...

DANNY:
(Melirik tersinggung) Oh getu ya?
Aduuuh... ga mau deh.

JACKIE:
Tenang Dan.
‘Tar lampunya kita matiin koq.
Elo juga bilang kalau dalam gelap
semua lobang rasanya sama.

DANNY:
Tenang... tenang! Iya kalau lobangnya
cuman satu. Cewek kan lobangnya dua?

RIA:
(Meledek) Tiga, kali say.

DANNY:
(Kaget) Apa? Ngga ah. Ini gila. Ogah.
(Dengan gaya mahu berdiri, tapi
ditarik duduk oleh Ria dan Jackie)
Kenapa ga cowok lain aja, please?
Yang straight, keq?

RIA:
Elo teman kita dah lama Dan.

JACKIE:
(Tegas)Dan gue ga bakal ijinin
cowok sebarangan macem-macem
ma Ria. (Terdiam)
(Dengan nada mengancam)
Itu termasuk elo lho. Awas aja
kalau tiba-tiba elo jadi
nafsu getu ma Ria.

DANNY:
(Menghela nafas) Please deh ya?
Gue emang mau nafsu gimana?
Secara elo punya...

RIA:
Apa? Toket? (Mendekap tangan ke dada)

JACKIE:
Terus? Loe mau ma gue aja?

DANNY:
(Memandang Jackie dari atas ke bawah)
Ngga deh ya... No offence, tapi
kayaknya gedean punya elo deh.
Bisa trauma gue.

RIA:
Mantan elo yang terakhir bukannya
obes, say? Otomatis ada dadanya dong?

DANNY:
(Dengan nada tersinggung)
Hmph... Chubby yah...

RIA:
Sorry say...

JACKIE:
Ayolah Dan. Mana gue udah bela-belain
ngerental bokep binan. Banyak pula.

RIA:
Boleh ya say, ya? Anaknya anak elo
juga koq nanti. Daripada elo kasi
hak melahirkan ke orang sembarangan
yang ujung-ujungnya ribet?

DANNY:
(Terdiam sebentar) Ya udah udah udah.
Yuk, bikin anak.

Ria dan Jackie kegirangan.

CUT TO:

EXT. KAMAR KONTRAKAN – CONTINOUS

Jackie berdiri di luar kamar, ada riak cemas di mukanya. Sesekali dia melirik jam di atas pintu kamar. Kakinya mengetuk lantai dengan tidak sabar. Dari dalam kamar terdengar bunyi gesekan-gesekan sprei kasur dan suara pemeran filem porno gay berdesah-desahan.
RIA (V.O):
(Dengan nada sakit) Aduh!
(Ada bunyi sesuatu jatuh)
Aaaah!!! Aduh! (Hening)
Yah... Danny! (Bunyi hampa)

Setelah beberapa detik, pintu terbuka perlahan. Tampang Ria masam mencuka, mempersilakan Jackie masuk.

CUT TO:

INT. KAMAR KONTRAKAN – CONTINOUS

Danny berdiri di pojok kamar, jauh dari Ria dan Jackie. Ekspresinya sama juteknya dengan Ria. Kemejanya masih utuh terpakai, celananya terganti dengan handuk selutut. Tangannya terlipat di depan dadanya dan wajahnya dipalingkan ke arah samping dengan gaya “gue-ga-mau-tau”.

JACKIE:
(Nyengir) Gimana Dan? Enak?
Jangan bilang kalau elo malah jadi
pengen straight.

RIA:
Sayang, spreinya dicek dulu deh.
(Menunjuk ke kasur)

Jackie menyibak sprei yang terlipat dan menemukan setumpuk noda basah. Hidungnya berkedut dan matanya mengernyit, menahan bau yang asing buatnya. Wajahnya cepat-cepat dipalingkannya.

JACKIE:
(Menatap Danny dan Ria dengan bingung)
Lho? Koq?

CUT TO:

Danny berpaling perlahan untuk menatap Jackie, dan dengan ekspresi “what-did-you-expect”, mengangkat kedua bahunya serentak dengan kedua alisnya dan melenggang keluar. Jackie dan Ria bertatapan hampa.

FADE OUT.

THE END.

Love in the air

2007-07-26T01:49:00.000-07:00

How do you think it feels?

Nothing here makes sense
Now that you are gone
But I pretend I'm fine
And play along

I placed satin sheets again
Where we used to lay
I face my pain
and cry my memories away

whenever I'm left alone it hurts
But when I am with you
I know I'll burn
Love is not a word
I could fairly return

And
Whenever my heart hurts this bad
Whenever I feel like looking back
I make believe that you are still mine
my dear

I said
"Don't leave me here"
but I wanted you to go
And I did not want you to know

Dear
whenever I'm left alone it hurts
But when I am with you
I know I'll burn
Love is not a word
I could fairly return

And
Whenever my heart hurts this bad
Whenever I feel like looking back
I make believe that you are still mine
my dear

Love
I know I can't break it up in two
yet half of my heart it rests in you
But with him I must stay true
And I still do

And
Whenever my heart hurts this bad
Whenever I feel like looking back
I make believe that you are still mine
my dear

Dear
whenever I'm left alone it hurts
But when I am with you
I know I'll burn
Love is not a word
I could fairly return