Thursday, December 4, 2014

Peter's Pain

I've been exposing myself to quite an amount of girlie fiction lately.

You know what I'm talking about, right? Despite the stunning and oftentimes messy complexity of real-life girls, there is one particular genre that most would be quick to associate with them; namely, love stories. And if I may be so bold, I assume it's true enough, in the sense that most love stories are made by women with female readers in mind.

I have to say that, in a way, those stories have been somewhat consoling for me.

You know why? Because I, who am in fact a boy, have as of late been feeling the sort of feelings they generally have in love stories. And it's always nice to know that there are others who feel the same way. Especially if those others are people of 'the other side.'

Small comfort, though. I mean, however nice it is to know that others feel the way I do, it doesn't do much to the feelings themselves.

And the feelings have been dominantly melancholic. The future is dark and dangerous, and I have been thinking about how good it would be to have a lasting ally by my side through the ordeal. To know a companion with whom I can share my joys and my sorrows. To be with someone long enough to be able to finally say, "Our time together is worth the price of our eventual, near-certain parting."

"Always I knew that Heaven would be the cruelest of places." I think I'm beginning to understand what Hyde says there. Once I have an idea of what I really, really, really want, not to have it is such torture. I don't have it. I've never had it. And I worry that I am not worthy of anyone or, which is worse, that no one is worthy of me.

But it's no use wallowing about this way. I believe that, however much I want it, I don't really need it. I've survived this long without having it. I just have to keep the desire from getting intense enough that it becomes indistinguishable from necessity.


If mine is to be a high and lonely destiny, or even a low and lonely one, then so be it.





"Have yourself a merry little Christmas...."

Ah, bollocks.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Just some observations and speculations.

Yesterday (Sunday, October 19th, 2014 AD) I went to church.

That would by itself be strange enough already, but there's something more. The church was a Catholic one. A cathedral, in fact. (FYI, I was raised in a Protestant environment. Hence, the strangeness.)

In the past I have, at times, been asked by my non-Christian friends about the difference between a Catholic and a Protestant. As with most questions worth answering, I can't answer it satisfactorily in a sentence. Why? Because I myself am still not sure about all the differences, despite having experienced both settings in my life.

Here's the answer most obvious to me: upon beginning and ending a prayer, Catholics tend to cross themselves (that is, they sequentially, with their hand, touch their forehead, then chest (heart?), then shoulders, one at a time), while Protestants do not usually do so. A superficial difference, I know, but then again, if you look deep enough, all differences are superficial, in a way.

There is, however, another thing which has been on my mind since I was in elementary school: the significance of Mary, Jesus' mom. The Catholic Church seems to put her in a very high place. I was reminded yesterday that in the Catholic world, Baby Jesus, not yet walking and therefore held by Mary, is portrayed in statues and images nearly as often as Beardy Jesus. Not so in the Protestant setting, as far as I observe.

Same goes with the saints. The word 'saint' in everyday Protestantism is nearly meaningless. We just call them by their names. Peter, Paul, Mary, John, and so on. Just ordinary people. Good and great people maybe, sure, but still simply human, just like us. Different with the Catholics, where the saints seem to hold some sort of offices or roles (which I'm not really sure) in the heavenly hierarchy.


Hmm.

I guess, for me, the general feeling I get from these observations is that the Catholics are more earthy, while the Protestants are more God-oriented. This does not mean that Catholicism is more atheistic than Protestantism, no. I mean that Protestantism seems more democratic, while Catholicism more monarchical. That might seem to contradict the first sentence of this paragraph, but bear with me for a while longer.

A monarchy is complex. It is not a state of affairs spontaneously generated. It is a product of civilization. A lot of people seem to view it as a simple top-down arrangement of power from one person to many. Top-down? Maybe. One to many? Sure. Simple? NO. In a monarchy, there is not only the king and the peasants, there are advisors, guards, knights, ministers, even fools and minstrels. A monarchy depends on the specialization of work. The people in a monarchy realize - and perhaps accept - that they have limited power individually, and they have to delegate - meaning trust - some work to other, more able people.

So, when I say that Catholicism is both earthy and monarchical, I do not mean that Catholics don't believe in a heavenly Father. It's just that the Catholics seem to have retained the rich cultural and traditional mindset of humbleness that feels quite pagan in nature. I like to imagine that it is this mindset that gave rise to the mythical gods and spirits in stories. Still monotheistic, but the Supreme God is just that, supreme, and lesser humans sometimes need greater intermediaries such as saints to commune with Him. Hence the emphasized role of Mary, as an example of the ultimate human surrender to God.

A democracy, on the other hand, is based on the belief that authority should be held by the populace, the masses; that the people should be allowed to decide their own goal and pursue it. Because it came later in history (at least in a formalized appearance), this might seem advanced, but the core ideas are very simple: I want, I am allowed to want, and I am allowed to do and/or have. The formalization process only consists of applying the simple principles already present in every brained animal (at least, as far as we know) to the plural setting, creating (almost as an afterthought) the clause, "as long as I do not impose on others." The rest are just logical consequences.

Thus the Protestants, being in nature more democratic, and for the first time in history empowered enough to exercise their belief (maybe because of the scientific advances that led to, among other things, the printing press and the industrial revolution), boldly did away with the complex bureaucracy of the Catholics and viewed themselves as able to righteously stand before God with no need for middlemen. Which is why the focus in their church is on Jesus, and Jesus alone, making the other characters, including Mary, simply secondary.



Well, maybe. Speculations, you know.



- Inspired by The Battle for God by Karen Armstrong and Miracles by C.S. Lewis-

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Until Lambs Become Lions

It is night right now.
I went outside for a smoke.
It is very cold.

Not for the first time, the cold gets my brain working. It's like a thermistor that way. Or, yes, Discworld's Ankh-Morpork's City Watch's Sergeant Detritus' brain.

This time, somehow, it made me think about compliments I have received over the years.

I have received a lot of compliments in my lifetime. This is not bragging, mind, it's just the way people go around. They compliment each other. I do that too, sometimes. However, only a few of said compliments I can still remember.

Three, in fact.

Here they are. In a chronological order. And, as it turns out, ascending impact.

One was from my mother. She once called me 'spartan.' This was some time after I moved away from her to go to college. I rarely went home. And, yes, my lifestyle changed quite drastically from the time I lived with her. If you happen to see me on the street, or worse, in my room, 'spartan' is probably among the last things that will come to mind. Imagine King Leonidas in the movie "300". Done? Now, I'm very nearly the exact opposite of that. I don't have a great beard, I'm really fat, and I don't walk around in leather briefs (not in public, at least). But I do have a somewhat austere outlook of life - if I do say so myself - and as such, I was glad when she called me 'spartan'. I am continually trying to live up to that name.

Another was from a senior of mine. A friend. I can't remember the setting in which he said this to me, but he called me 'asexual'. And I was pleased. It brought a smile to my face. I wonder, what does that say about me?

The third, and the one that I felt very, very honored to have received, was from my brother. Guess what he called me?

He called me 'Mycroft'. As in 'Holmes'.

For those of you who don't know, Mycroft Holmes is the older brother of the more well-known Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who was played in more recent times by Robert Downey Jr. and Benedict Cumberbatch, among others.

Of course, some might think that my brother was just trying to call himself 'Sherlock' in a roundabout way. And make no mistake, he is smart. And he is good. I would not mind if indeed that was what he was saying. But, if you've read or seen some of the stories, it was evident that Mycroft was way cleverer than Sherlock. I choose to believe my brother knew about this.

My little brother was not timid to say, "I'm good. But you're better."

And I consider it the greatest honor I have received.

I'm inclined to think it the greatest honor I will ever receive, at least from men.



But enough about me. How about you? Have you ever been moved deeply by a simple compliment? Would you like to tell me about it?

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Thicker Than the Water of the Womb

I am happy. I can't sleep right now, and I'm happier than I've been in a very, very long time.

Here's why:

For the first time in my life, I truly, truly realize that, yes, I do have a friend. And it feels SO FREAKING GREAT.



Contrary to my previous assumptions, it feels nice to finally find someone for whom, if they should die before me, I would cry and wail and scream and rage and grieve without reservation.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Why I Am Not *Really* Religious

Because I fucking hate being made to get up in the morning. On Sundays, no less.





Just in case someone's wondering.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

I want to smile.

I want to tell you about my imaginary friends. Yes, I once had imaginary friends.

You might ask, "What do they look like, these friends?"

See, the thing about imaginary things (friends, enemies, deities, whatever) is that oftentimes you can't really say what they look like. Sometimes you can only say what they are.

So let me tell you that, back when I was smaller, my imaginary friends were mice.

Yep. My imaginary friends were mice. Two of them, in fact. They were envoys from a large colony (is this correct? I'm not sure) of mice that lived under my pillow. Since they mainly operated around the pillow, I only got to talk to them before I slept at night. At nine pm, after brushing my teeth and changing into my pajamas, I'd get in bed and call to them. I'd wait until they have climbed onto my hand, and snuggle up with them until I fell asleep.

What did we talk about? Nothing. I'd just gather them in my hands and close my eyes, believing that after I fell asleep they'd go back to their colony under the pillow. I've never said anything to them, aside from the summons I made. My only mode of interaction with them is the snuggling. I don't even know their names.

But they were my friends.

I wonder where they are now.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

No Offense Meant. So If You're Offended, Fuck You.

It has been a while, hasn't it?

Well, the only reason I'm writing this, here, right now, is that someone sent some sort of message asking me to write. Or, as an observer might see it, making me do things they want done which I don't really want to be doing right now. Pain in the ass. Screw you, mysterious supplicant, you suck.

No, just kidding. I'm sorry. I do want to write this. I love you. Please don't hate me.



Having said that, it is still true that this is an unplanned post, and I am currently drawing a blank here. So, naturally, I'll resort to dreams. It does take quite an effort to take a break from living in my dreams and write about them instead, but I welcome the exercise.

I had this one particular dream some weeks ago. In it, I met someone who I think happens to be rather popular in the general area where I live. The guy's name is Raditya Dika.

Who, I hear you ask? Raditya Dika. To my knowledge, dude's mostly a writer. He started with blogging. Now... I'm not really sure what he actually does presently. Never have, now that I think of it. Yes, I first found out about this blog thing from a collection of his blog posts, published in book form. Yes, it would not be strictly factual to say that he has not influenced me in any way. Sure, I've read some of his books (yes, more than one), I've seen one episode of a TV series with which he had something to do, and I am aware that at least one of his books (which I haven't read) has been adapted into a movie (which I haven't seen). That's all, though. I don't know him.

But, regardless of how much, or how little, contact I have had with the guy, it wouldn't be so weird for a celebrity figure to pop into people's dreams from time to time, right? Right.

What confounds me, though, is what I did, in the dream, with Raditya Dika. I'm going to describe the interaction, in high-definition detail. If you don't think you can handle this, feel free to go to xkcd.com for a funny and educational webcomic.

So what I did in the dream was... I gave him a message to pass to someone. What I said was, in the full glory of its original bahasa Indonesia, "Eh, salam buat Yudit ya." Which roughly translates to "Please send my regards to Yudit."

That was it.

When I woke up and remembered the dream, I was all 'What the fluuuub?' and 'Huh? Huh?' I mean, it's one thing to have a popular figure in your dream, and most of my dreams are severely lacking in the context area (leading to apparent incoherence), but just who the fuck is this Yudit person??

If one were to do a little research, it turns out there is someone named Yudit in close relation to Raditya Dika. To be precise, she is his eldest younger sister. I think this was mentioned in his first book.

However... what the heck? It would be strange enough to say that my dream featured an obscure sister of a slightly well-known person, but in my dream she wasn't even present, despite evidently being important enough that I made a mere messenger of someone who is (a) a beloved media figure and (b) her older brother. Baffling.

But hey, I wonder, what would this Yudit person be like? Am I allowed to guess? I think I should, now that she's launched an invasion to my dream. More fruitful than to question myself and the dreams, at the very least.

Maybe she's a bratty, scrappy little dark kid who drives an Audi equipped with a machine gun. Maybe she's a dainty princess who lives in a palace made of cotton candy and strawberry-scent shampoo, and eats rainbows for dinner. Ooh, ooh, or maybe she's closer to an ogre, nay, a cyclops with canine incisors, goat-like horns, a scaly tail, and three wings. Three. Wings.



Dammit, she sounds awesome.

Monday, May 12, 2014

She Shall Free Me

My death is my apprentice.
Still young, and not very strong.
I call myself her master
And think of her all day long.

I wish for her strength,
Determination, resolution.
For she will surely need them
To accomplish her mission.

There are days when I falter,
When I fear the dark of the coffin,
But then she'd laugh and kiss me, and suddenly
The darkness are all but forgotten.

Now I train her every day
I nourish her, I focus her.
Until, one day, when stronger than I she'll be
And give me swift and painless murder.



My death is my apprentice,
Someday surpass me she will.
But at times I wonder if I'm too young
To train a child to kill.

Sunday, May 4, 2014

"You want to know how I got these scars?"

Depression is playing Pokémon Emerald with an emulator on your laptop until the fuse in your room blows. And only managing to get six gym badges along the way.

Depression is getting a large box of biscuits and milk from your mom and rushing through them all in two days.

Depression is eating rehydrated instant cup noodles for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks after finishing the aforementioned large box of foodstuff.

Depression is playing The Notting Hillbillies' "Feel Like Going Home" on the piano over and over and over again, and failing to shed a single tear, while your heart feels like stopping, and doesn't, and your eyes keep sneaking glances at that red kitchen knife you carry around everywhere everyday, and not having the guts to use it as you want to.

Depression is watching three seasons of Game of Thrones in five days.

Depression is reading a book about personalities and going back again and again to the chapters on sociopaths, because who doesn't like reading about themselves?

Depression is spending only two hours attending class in a semester. And zero hours on exams.

Depression is asking your friends, "What would you do if one day you received news that I committed suicide?" right before getting off the car.

Depression is trying to type a confession of all the things you have and have not done, addressed to your parents, knowing that they are currently so very thrilled that your little brother has just been accepted in universities abroad.

Depression is having a dream where you see your beloved friend, with his hair dyed blond, smiling and waving at you, walking away, getting on with his happy life, while you sit on a table at a pier with your back to the evening sun and a stranger on your side, unable to stand and give a goodbye hug to that friend, wanting to scream and finding your throat blocked by something, and only managing to smile weakly while tears escaped your eyes and rolls down your cheeks onto your chin and then falling to the gravel below.

Depression is having your cold fingers tremble while pushing buttons in front of a glowing screen.

Depression is packs of cigarettes and large bottles of cola.



Depression is not Destiny, nor Death, nor Dream. It is not even Destruction. You would think it was Desire, and Despair, and you would be wrong. I wish it were Delirium. Alas, it is not.



Depression is doom.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Preamble

Hi. Everyone happy? Or at least content? Or, failing that, somewhere on the satisfaction spectrum above suicidal, homicidal, or, God forbid, itchy?

Just checking. I'm going to try something... well, not exactly new, just something I haven't done in quite a while. I'm going to let the Bahasa Indonesia-speaking fragment of me out. He seems to have something to say, so please wait here while I go fetch him.



*******



Hai! Wah, sudah lama sekali ya, saya tak berbuat seperti ini. Ini apa? Menulis dengan bahasa Indonesia, dong. Coba kita lihat hasilnya nanti.

Kenapa tiba-tiba jadi menulis dalam bahasa Indonesia?

Jadi kemarin siang saya naik angkot. Ini terjadi di Bandung. Nah, di angkot ini, ada seorang ibu yang... kenormalan pikirannya mungkin layak dipertanyakan. Ibu ini membawa sebuah kantong plastik hitam berisi beberapa bungkusan koran yang bentuknya seperti bungkusan nasi pada umumnya, dan kerupuk dalam plastik-plastik kecil yang hampir bening. Asumsikan saja bahwa beliau membawa beberapa porsi nasi bungkus. Nasi goreng, kuning, uduk, putih, silakan pilih, karena bungkusan-bungkusan ini tidak penting perannya dalam cerita. Beliau juga membawa sebuah dompet kulit kecil berwarna hitam, tempat ia menyimpan uangnya, namun dompet ini pun tidak terlalu relevan dalam narasi ini, sehingga kalimat terakhir ini dapat diabaikan dan Anda hanya perlu membaca sebagian dari paragraf ini, tidak perlu sampai selesai.

Ibu ini duduk di bagian belakang angkot, di sebelahnya ada ruang kosong, dan di sebelah ruang kosong tersebut duduklah seorang perempuan muda, kira-kira antara 18-25 tahun umurnya. Perempuan muda ini duduk dengan agak menghadap ke depan, seakan ingin menjauh dari sang ibu sejauh yang dimungkinkan dimensi angkot ini.

(Agar mudah, mari mulai sekarang kita sebut perempuan ini dengan nama Chalchiuhtlicue. Sang ibu akan tetap kita sebut sebagai sang ibu.) 

Pada saat ini saya belum punya dugaan apa-apa mengenai situasi kewarasan sang ibu.

Saya masuk ke dalam angkot, lalu duduk di bagian angkot yang berseberangan dengan kedua wanita tadi. Kepala kami bertiga, jika dianggap sebagai benda titik, membentuk segitiga sama kaki.

Saat saya duduk, sang ibu sedang mengatur penempatan bungkusan-bungkusan dalam kantong plastiknya sembari berbicara kepada Chalchiuhtlicue. Ibu ini, yang sejujurnya terlihat agak dekil, berbicara dalam bahasa Inggris, namun entah mengapa, Chalchiuhtlicue hanya tersenyum dan mengeluarkan suatu bunyi, "Hmm," tanpa membuka mulutnya. Ini, beserta dengan cara Chalchiuhtlicue memosisikan dirinya, membangkitkan dugaan dalam benak saya bahwa ada sesuatu yang tidak biasa dengan ibu ini. Setelah didengarkan sejenak, ternyata kata-kata sang ibu lebih mirip celotehan, bahkan mungkin masuk dalam kategori racauan, sehingga dugaan awal saya bertambah kuat.

Setelah saya duduk, dan angkot mulai melaju, sang ibu mendongak ke depan, mungkin karena susunan barang di dalam kantong plastiknya sudah cukup memuaskan baginya. Ia melihat saya. (Kebetulan rambut saya sedang diikat ke atas dalam suatu gelungan hari itu.) Kontan ia menyentuh lutut saya, saya bergidik sedikit, lalu sang ibu berkata, "Mas! Kayak Patih Gajah Mada!"

Sang ibu kemudian menoleh ke arah Chalchiuhtlicue, dan untuk memastikan ia bertanya pada Chalchiuhtlicue, "Ya kan Mbak? Sampe kaget saya!"

Chalchiuhtlicue, seperti sebelumnya, hanya tersenyum dan menggumam, namun kali ini ditambah dengan sedikit anggukan.

"Kuat, gagah," lanjut sang ibu. Sampai sekarang saya tak tahu pasti pernyataan ini dimaksudkan untuk menggambarkan saya atau Patih Gajah Mada.

Barangkali di antara pembaca ada yang bertanya-tanya, apa reaksi saya? Apakah tersipu malu dan menyangkal dengan terbata-bata? Ataukah dengan mantap tertawa dan berterima kasih? Sayangnya, bukan keduanya. Saya bertindak sesuai dengan pengaturan default saya ketika berhadapan dengan orang yang kewarasannya tidak jelas, yaitu hampir sama sekali tidak menanggapinya. Dengan mata malas, saya melirik sang ibu, sedikit mengangkat alis, kemudian kembali menatap pemandangan di balik kaca angkot dengan penuh perhatian.

"Dari mana?" tanya sang ibu, seakan saya teman lamanya yang sudah setengah hari tidak ditemui.

Oh, Cikapundung cukup deras hari ini, pikir saya diam-diam, sambil menunjuk ke arah yang tidak jelas sebagai jawaban bagi pertanyaan sang ibu.

"Mahasiswa ya?" kejar sang ibu.

Alis sedikit menaik, mulut sedikit menganga, kepala sedikit mengangguk. Tanpa kata.

"Oh pasti pinter ya?" lanjut sang ibu, namun dengan nada yang tidak seantusias sebelumnya.

Ah, bagus, sudah malas dia, pikir saya.

"Very clever. Good man," ujar sang ibu.

Mata saya sedikit membelalak, tersentak dengan penggunaan kata clever yang saya rasa tidak terlalu umum ditemukan di jalanan.

Setelah itu saya, Chalchiuhtlicue, dan sang ibu tidak berkata-kata lagi, selain sedikit gumaman tidak jelas dari sang ibu. Setelah selang beberapa lama, sang ibu berseru "Kiri," mantera yang memiliki efek menghentikan angkot yang sedang dinaiki, walaupun tingkat akurasi mantera ini berbeda-beda untuk tiap angkot. Setelah sang ibu turun dan angkot berjalan tidak seberapa jauh, Chalchiuhtlicue turut merapal mantera yang sama dan juga pergi meninggalkan angkot.

Sampai sekarang saya tidak pernah bertemu dengan sang ibu ataupun Chalchiuhtlicue lagi.


Malamnya, setelah siangnya berbuat hal-hal yang tidak akan saya paparkan di sini, saya berbelanja di sebuah convenience store. Saat bergerak ke kasir, dan menunggu untuk membayar belanjaan saya (sekotak susu dan beberapa bungkus mi instan, terima kasih sudah menanyakan), ada seorang bapak yang terlihat takjub dengan sebotol air yang dijual.

"Wah, ini air mineral?" tanya sang bapak kepada kasir.

"Iya, Pak," jawab si kasir.

"Ini harganya berapa?" sang bapak bertanya kembali.

"Dua ribu tiga ratus, Pak," jawab si kasir.

"Dua ribu tiga ratus? Wow!" ujar sang bapak sambil agak tertawa kaget.

Saat itu sang bapak melihat kepada saya dan berucap, "Mineral water? Is that true?"

Saya hanya tersenyum, setengah bingung dan setengah tidak yakin harus menjawab apa.

Untungnya sang bapak hanya tertawa kecil dan melanjutkan, "Is that true? But it's so cheap!"

Mungkin perlu saya sebutkan bahwa bapak ini, jika hanya menilik dari penampilan luar, sepertinya orang Indonesia tulen.

Agar dapat segera menyelesaikan urusan pembayaran, sambil agak tertawa mengikuti perilaku sang bapak, saya berkata pada sang bapak, "Haha, pokoknya air putihlah, Pak."

"Ah, ya, air putih. Hahaha. Tapi karena tulisannya 'Air Mineral,' kita ambil deh."

Lalu malam itu berakhir tanpa peristiwa berarti selain peristiwa di dalam kamar saya yang melibatkan sekumpulan semut dan sebuah puntung rokok.

Bapak itu, seperti sang ibu di angkot dan Chalchiuhtlicue, juga tidak pernah saya lihat lagi semenjak malam itu.

-------

Kenapa saya menulis tentang ini? Kenapa saya bercerita tentang satu hari saat dua orang yang kelihatannya tidak berhubungan berkomunikasi dengan saya dengan bahasa Inggris yang menurut saya cukup baik, cukup jauh di atas rata-rata, di tempat yang tidak disangka? Kenapa saya melakukannya dalam bahasa Indonesia?



Oh, terakhir kali saya menulis dengan bahasa Indonesia, saya masih menggunakan "gw." Entah apa yang saya pikirkan dulu.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Oh

I love you.

I love you.

....

If you're no longer you,
And there were no more me,
Will Love be all that is?

....

I love you.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Confession. Unrepentant.

It's already the third month of the year. Another way to see it is, "It's only the third month of the year." As in, "It's only the third month of the year, and I've failed to keep that one resolution I made earlier this year." Yes, I smoked. No, I'm not proud of it. YES, IT WAS SUCH A RELIEF. It first happened on February 16th. Around noon. With my pipe. It did not taste good. But I never smoked for the taste, although it does matter. I smoke for the smoke. I dye my breath when I smoke, and I just love the bluish grey color the smoke has. After that pipe incident, the smoking occurred again. A few times more. Bummed some cigarettes. Bought a pack of them. Finished it, too. Not without help, though.

But that was February. This is March. There will be no smoking in March.

April will be another matter.



Screw annual resolutions. I'm doing life monthly now.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Yes, I Do Love Meat

More often than not, demons are portrayed as exceedingly biological.

That sentence above was the first part of a tweet that sprang to mind upon reading the manga Berserk. (The last part of the tweet, if anyone happens to be interested, was "Interesting, that." It was an old tweet.)

Oh, by the way, hey, spoiler alert, sort of.

As I was saying, Berserk. It's got demons in it, and they are very fantastically biological. Meaty and gooey and bloody and phlegm-y. Of course, it is a manga, which came from Japan, but the point regarding demonic biology still stands. After all, it's not like it's an isolated incident occurring only in Japan. Aside from other Japanese examples containing dark and diabolical appendages, which I am not going to name, similar images have also been evoked in what is now called Western (pop) culture. To name a couple: Neil Gaiman's Sandman's Lucifer's Hell and the various hellish creatures in the video game Darksiders.

Let's take a look at each of them.

In the comic Sandman, created by Neil Gaiman, Hell is a domain ruled by Lucifer, most of the time. It is not a place of punishment; at least, not like it is popularly imagined. But yes, there is a lot of pain in Hell. Perhaps that is why the inhabitants of Hell, the demons, the damned, and even the decor are nearly all flesh. Soft, sticky, pink flesh. And it makes sense. I mean, to incorporate pain you need corporeal form. Even if sometimes they are corpse-like ones.

That was Mr. Gaiman's work. In Darksiders, however, the function of biology in Hell is not so readily apparent. Rather, it seems that it was a differentiating tool to thematically distinguish the warring factions. While the Legions of Hell are, as I'm sure I've hinted previously, made up of organic beings (including a dragon, no less), the Host of Heaven, in contrast, wear somewhat futuristic-looking mechanical armors. They have laser wings. Blue laser wings. And guns. Guns, in Heaven. And the two armies wage war against each other, and puny humans get caught up in the fray. (And you play as War, but that is not directly related to my point. Read on.)

There are, I suspect, many more portrayals of the organic nature of demons. But, as I'm not so diligent a person, I will jump to conclusions instead of doing the additional research.

I am going to guess that we humans loathe, and subsequently demonize, our physiology. We view the carnal part of our existence as primitive and unrefined, while admiring artificial and increasingly unnatural (if we are allowed to use that strange term) devices. I am not contrasting physical and spiritual aspects; that is perhaps a discussion for another time. What I am trying to assert is that perhaps we assign negative values to the basic biology which we have had since our birth, and view technology as good, 'advanced,' and, ultimately, something worth pursuing almost in exclusion of all else.

Ah, generalization is so very fun. And simple. And it makes the world go round, so....

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Meat Circus. No, I haven't beaten Psychonauts yet.

On the back of my forearm, there is a scar. Around three centimeters long, and three millimeters at its widest. It is positioned perpendicular to the length of the forearm, ten centimeters from the wrist.

This particular scar has been, for reasons unknown, an object of interest for at least two members of my family: my father and my brother. My father would look at it and say something like, "Ah, what a shame, where did you get that scar?" My brother, on the other hand, would try to play detective (no doubt the influence of that BBC's Sherlock he has been watching), but to no success. He, like his father, would express his perplexity at it, wondering at how the scar came to grace my arm.

To both of them, I always answer, "Hey, yeah, where/how did I get that? Must have been a long time ago when I was a little kid."



After all, it can't possibly be recent, made with a red kitchen knife, around three millimeters deep at the time of its creation, and self-inflicted, right?

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Sol Invictus or Saturnalia, As You Please

I saw the movie "Arthur Christmas" a few days back. (Edit: more like two weeks ago. This post was, remarkably, tagged 'draft' for quite a long yet definite period.)

I liked it. A new spin on the Santa story, at least new to me, it was. And the voice of Bill Nighy was no drawback. He plays an old man, as usual.

Back to the main topic: Arthur Christmas. The movie, I mean.

Spoiler alert, just to be safe.

So, the modern-day Santa operation is no longer the private affair like it used to be years and years ago, when St. Nicholas walks around all by himself. It has even progressed much more than the traditional eight reindeer-powered sleigh flying around the world in one night. Santa kept with the times. The thing is, Santa is not immortal. So when he gets old enough, he retires, just like most people in the world, and Santahood is passed on to another (in the case of the movie, to Santa's son).

Eh, I'm not that good at describing movies. The tendency to ramble is irresistible. Look at the paragraph above. The third and fourth sentences aren't really connected. Not to mention I missed the first 15 minutes or so of the movie. Go watch it, I'm not going to bore you anymore with the main plot.

What I happened to notice is that, the Santa Operation is now Santa Corporation. There are loads of elves doing the main bulk of the work of assessing children's gift preferences, manufacturing them, and delivering them on Christmas Eve. The Santa, while still delivering the gifts himself, acts more as a supervisor and manager. I'd like to say captain, like on a ship, maybe.

How many elves? I said loads. I'd even say multinational. One elf, if I remember correctly, wears a kilt, so I assume he's Scottish. There are also elves that speak in German and Indian accents, I recall. I suppose it would be very difficult trying to do the kind of work Santa does with just the native elves of North Pole.

But the point I'm trying to make is this. Christmas is no longer (if ever it was) solely a Europeans' or Westerns' holiday. Remember the Indian elf.

I am even going to suggest the preposterous: that the Indian elf might even be a Hindu elf.

And Christmas is not only for Christians.

Sure, Christians celebrate Christmas to commemorate Christ's birth. (And for those of you who try to argue "Christ was probably not even born in December!" I am going to say, "Correct. Ever heard of the saying, 'Happy belated birthday?' Doesn't really fucking matter to them, man, what the correct date is.") Why can't others celebrate Christmas for something entirely different? Tim Minchin, an atheist, likes Christmas. And there's nothing wrong with that, right?

We impose our own views on holidays. We imbue them with meaning that might not even exist at the holidays' conception. We turn every holiday into our own holiday. We make each day as holy as we want. And it is good.



And redefining a holiday's meaning to be "trying to stop people from wishing goodness on others and/or sneering at those who do" is just fucking stupid.





P.S: If you're still wondering who Tim Minchin is, here's a link to his song about Christmas. I love it.

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Strawberry Kit Kat

Ahoy! Happy New Year! Hopefully the year is still sufficiently fresh that the greeting has not yet become obsolete.

Well, I actually have quite a few items of news, but they can wait. After all, what better way to start this year's blogging than looking back to the previous year and enumerate my failings? So, without further delay, here's that list of things I thought I should do last year, with commentary!


1. Get Good with the Piano. No. Not good enough yet. Just some basic chords. Fail.

2. Write. I'll give this a half-mark. Granted, I haven't written either any songs or published items, but I did manage to acquire a notebook to write things in. It's shaping up quite nicely, if I do say so myself. I'll continue filling it up. It's a very nice notebook, by the way, it has a small folder for small pieces of paper attached to its back cover and an elastic loop for a pencil or pen. Very nice. Love it.

3. Exercise. Eh. Sure, I walked more than the previous year, but the energy output did not increase significantly. Not enough. Fail.

4. Beg for Forgiveness. Fail. I think for this one the pressure did not help. Won't try that again in the near future.


So, for me, 2013 was pretty much a failure. Oh well. Screw 2013.


As for 2014, I think I'll just have one item on the list.

1. No Smoking. At all.

Okay.



Now, for the aforementioned items of news!

I spent the final week of 2013 in Japan with my family. It was fun. There were some things that crossed my mind that I managed to write down in that notebook of mine, let me see....

Ah, here they are. Number one: politeness. In Japan, we were bombarded from all sides by politeness. Very, very unsettling for me. It was all "sumimasen" and "kudasai" and "arigato" and "yoroshiku" everywhere. Bowing included. At first, I felt as if the people there who interacted with me (waiters, janitors, bus drivers, cashiers, etc) were so scared that, if handled with less than perfect gentleness, I might just break. Or as if that everything else might, so they went around everywhere being so very polite to everybody, just in case. At first, as I said, it was very unsettling. But after I went home to Jakarta, I realised that it was not because I hate politeness. It was simply because there were indeed different atmospheres between the two cities. In Japan, all public servants (not sure I'm using the term correctly here, but by it I mean people who work in the service industry in public) were so pleasant, nice, polite, that if I didn't respond in kind I would feel like such a huge... jerk. You might say that I was kindly forced to be nice. Perhaps the term 'maneuvered' would be appropriate here. But you can see clearly how it quickly grows on you. Contrast with Jakarta, where I asked a pair of booth attendants whether a certain DVD was in stock or not, and they laughed. At me. Oy vey. Granted, I'm not sure if I'd like having to pay the amount of attention to manners as the Japanese do everyday, but if you can't be polite, I think you can at least be not rude. I might be wrong, of course.

Number two: onsen (温泉). Or, public bathing. Yes, I got naked in front of other men. Initially, of course, there was some anxiety, but when the time came... there was really nothing to it. Really. If you don't make it a big deal, it will not be a big deal. Made me wonder where all the preoccupation about size (I'm talking about males here, ladies, I don't know your thoughts about size - yours or ours) came from. Onsen was fun. Essentially it's hot springs, just like you might find in Bandung, but they provide you with showers and stools and soap and shampoo and, yes, conditioner, not to mention a towel, and those little delights went a long way. Also, I think it would just be icky if people were to wear swimsuits into the baths. The Japanese, in public bathing matter at least, did something right.

Lastly: Shinkansen. Bullet train. So called because if you get hit by one, you'd probably be injured in some way. Just like a bullet. Right? Oh, and it was fast, too. How fast, you ask? Let me put it this way: if two shinkansen happen to pass each other, and you happen to sit by the right-side window, you'd be able to see right through the other train's windows to the other side without much noticeable obstruction. The trains pass so fast that the walls between the windows don't have enough time to get in the way of your sight. Magnificent.

That's all I got to jot down in the notebook, sorry. Sure, several more things happened during my stay there. Such as Tokyo Disneyland, Tokyo DisneySea, Mount Fuji, natto, Senso-ji Temple, Kiyomizu Temple, and Osaka Universal Studios, but I'll just mention them in passing. Oh, wait, I just did. Okay then, no harm done.

I loved Japan. I'd be happy to go there again.

Ah, here's a picture of a pork-and-cheese-filled bun in the shape of Hello Kitty.


















Now I'd like to end this entry with a quote. The same one I used in the short eulogy I gave for my maternal grandfather who died two days after I got home from Japan.

"The term is over: the holidays have begun.
The dream is ended: this is the morning."

That was from Mr. C.S. Lewis.

I am not sad.

I'd really like to sing "My Grandfather's Clock."

Have another good year, everybody!