ON DUCATI DAY and STONER’S METAMORPHOSIS
I know it’s a lil bit late to say this, but following my fave racer Valentino Rossi’s example of being a good sport—I just want to congratulate all Ducati fans on their triumphant day last Sunday in Motegi, Japan.
It’s also amazing to see how fast a cocoon turned into a butterfly—from a ‘Crashy’ Stoner into Casey The Winner.
Vale finally found the best rival—hopefully next season will be much more fun to watch—full adrenaline too!
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
MUSIC OF MY HEART
I’ve been feeling musical lately.
Maybe it is triggered by the intensive orchestra rehearsals at my music school and my daily two hour practices at home.
I really love to be there, in the hall upstairs, where lots of chairs are arranged neatly, two for every music stand: we are seated in pair then, and there’s no fixed rule where to sit, as long you find someone with the same position (first, second, or third fiddlers). We all mingle there, from every age (elementary school kids, teenagers, up to grown ups in mid-forties). Some additional chairs are put nearby to anticipate the laggards.
Sometimes I am one of those laggards. But despite the yells to hurry up from the annoyed teacher and music conductor, I enjoy those rushing moments when we climb up the stairs, two steps at a time, then go inside the small room to put our violin case on the floor, open it up quickly yet carefully, tighten the bow and set up the shoulder rest as fast as we can. Though most of us usually don’t have enough time to apply the rosin into those smooth fibbers, we can still smell it from the residue not yet wiped away from the last practice.
Then we fly to the hall where the music is already playing.
We violinist are lucky never to be singled out for any false tunes (though we hit them anyway), but receive the reproach(es) as a group, unlike the poor and only one drummer, or guitarist, or bassist. The worst is just a playful poke of the teacher’s baton to correct the position of our hands, legs, and backs. We don’t mind his yelling at us, really. It is taken with a grain of salt, and though we loudly boo at his suggestion(s) of prolonging the rehearsal hour, we actually won’t mind lingering there a little bit more.
I think music is beautiful. I can’t agree at all with a close friend of mine who thinks that music is not more than a disturbing noise. He is one of the two people I know of who don’t like music, almost hate it, I dare say. However, our different opinion about this subject doesn’t reduce my respect and affections I have for him.
Anyway, I have learned to enjoy some ‘disturbing noises’ as a music as well. I will never forget the beauty I found in my nephews’ kiddy talks as they fussed over me soon after my hospital release over a year ago. Their loud and cheerful voice could barely contain their joy of seeing again their once almost dead aunty. And it mortified me to remember how many times I had chided them for making those sounds when I needed a peaceful time to nap or study.
I’ve also grown to appreciate the moments when I woke up to the sound of the rustling leaves, tossed by a morning breeze. From my window I can see some almost withered roses nodding a good morning for me, while at the same time keeping their petals from dropping with impressive tenacity I almost cry watching them. They won’t be there too long.
But soon I’ll be comforted with the sound of my parents chattering in the kitchen or dining room. Sometimes when I am not too sleepy, from my bedroom I can catch a word or two of their conversations, hear their pleasant chuckles as they banter light-heartedly, like a song to my ears, affirming that they are already there for me, ready to smile at and love me unconditionally, and the thought of it warms my heart beyond words.
I know they won’t be there for me forever, neither will I for them. I hate to think of it, but someday we must say goodbye too. But I will always keep their ‘morning song’ in my heart, as the most beautiful music of all.
Maybe it is triggered by the intensive orchestra rehearsals at my music school and my daily two hour practices at home.
I really love to be there, in the hall upstairs, where lots of chairs are arranged neatly, two for every music stand: we are seated in pair then, and there’s no fixed rule where to sit, as long you find someone with the same position (first, second, or third fiddlers). We all mingle there, from every age (elementary school kids, teenagers, up to grown ups in mid-forties). Some additional chairs are put nearby to anticipate the laggards.
Sometimes I am one of those laggards. But despite the yells to hurry up from the annoyed teacher and music conductor, I enjoy those rushing moments when we climb up the stairs, two steps at a time, then go inside the small room to put our violin case on the floor, open it up quickly yet carefully, tighten the bow and set up the shoulder rest as fast as we can. Though most of us usually don’t have enough time to apply the rosin into those smooth fibbers, we can still smell it from the residue not yet wiped away from the last practice.
Then we fly to the hall where the music is already playing.
We violinist are lucky never to be singled out for any false tunes (though we hit them anyway), but receive the reproach(es) as a group, unlike the poor and only one drummer, or guitarist, or bassist. The worst is just a playful poke of the teacher’s baton to correct the position of our hands, legs, and backs. We don’t mind his yelling at us, really. It is taken with a grain of salt, and though we loudly boo at his suggestion(s) of prolonging the rehearsal hour, we actually won’t mind lingering there a little bit more.
I think music is beautiful. I can’t agree at all with a close friend of mine who thinks that music is not more than a disturbing noise. He is one of the two people I know of who don’t like music, almost hate it, I dare say. However, our different opinion about this subject doesn’t reduce my respect and affections I have for him.
Anyway, I have learned to enjoy some ‘disturbing noises’ as a music as well. I will never forget the beauty I found in my nephews’ kiddy talks as they fussed over me soon after my hospital release over a year ago. Their loud and cheerful voice could barely contain their joy of seeing again their once almost dead aunty. And it mortified me to remember how many times I had chided them for making those sounds when I needed a peaceful time to nap or study.
I’ve also grown to appreciate the moments when I woke up to the sound of the rustling leaves, tossed by a morning breeze. From my window I can see some almost withered roses nodding a good morning for me, while at the same time keeping their petals from dropping with impressive tenacity I almost cry watching them. They won’t be there too long.
But soon I’ll be comforted with the sound of my parents chattering in the kitchen or dining room. Sometimes when I am not too sleepy, from my bedroom I can catch a word or two of their conversations, hear their pleasant chuckles as they banter light-heartedly, like a song to my ears, affirming that they are already there for me, ready to smile at and love me unconditionally, and the thought of it warms my heart beyond words.
I know they won’t be there for me forever, neither will I for them. I hate to think of it, but someday we must say goodbye too. But I will always keep their ‘morning song’ in my heart, as the most beautiful music of all.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
BOUND TO BE HOME
Most people (who I know of, at least) aren’t content to be where they are.
It’s relieving to know that I’m not the only one. Yet it’s also alarming to think that a place you’ve imagined would make you a happier person (if only you could live in it), apparently has failed to do so to others (who are already living there). A dreamer wishes to see more of the world, and yet has to fret because her humdrum routine work makes her feel as if she’s being grounded. And yet a world traveler might long for a year when he can finally settle in one place rather than moving around like a nomad. A woman in her mid-thirties might long for a long-awaited soulmate who’d come to snatch her from her ‘weird singlehood’ (as my friend Danielle put it) and make her his queen in some Timbuktu land where she once has been. And maybe they will breed a litter of kids so she won’t have to be alone anymore, won’t be confused anymore of what to do when time is abundant. And yet a young wife with a handful baby to raise thinks she’d give anything to just have 5 minute for herself, to be alone, to be quiet, without having to worry about breastfeeding her kids, putting up with mom in law, or her once romantic husband who’d grown cold. Or a youngster who dreams of being an expat, living and making money in some far away country, tasting new cuisines he only hears of in some culinary shows on TV, and yet has to be satisfied feeding himself with instant noodles, especially at the end of a month when he has spent nearly all his last month’s salary and has not yet received the next.
And those were a few examples to mention. And like I told you before, I am one of them too. Above all places in the whole universe, I want to go to Italy, and maybe some of you are already sick of hearing me say those words again and again.
Few days ago a friend of mine sent me a well-written short story depicting Milan (which made me rack my brain and flip my dictionary in my efforts to understand it---it’s in Italian). It didn’t tell about the exquisite panettone with gelato inside which would make your mouth water, nor about the exhilarating soccer match in San Siro stadium (which I want to see one day), nor about those tame doves which would surround you in front of the famous Duomo. In short, it was a story of Milan from the point of view of someone who probably had lived there all of her life. Down to earth, realistic, and at some point, poignant too. Strangely, it made me think of Jakarta: Same problems, similar dilemmas. Then why on earth do I (still) think that I would enjoy Milan (or at least tolerate it more) than I do Jakarta?
Beats me.
I’m a kind of person who’s easy to please but hard to satisfy. But I guess, most of us are. We tend to think that other places must be better, must be more pleasant or exciting than where we are now, simply because it is different than what we’re accustomed to. But once the honeymoon period is over, we are faced with the same old drudgery, and start to long for somewhere else. Again.
Is it selfish to be so?
Some self-conceited people do think so. One of them accused my selfless and talented friend of being selfish simply because he said he wanted to go abroad. Why not stay in your homeland, there are lots of souls needed your help, lots of chances to serve the Lord here—were the bases of the accusation. The thing is, that man is not God, and who is he to judge my friend whom he’d just met once? And if he also left his own country to be here, then why smirking at someone else who wanted to do what he himself had done? A dear friend of mine implied a similar accusation to me a while ago. I understand why she thinks so, though I have never been in her position. But I grieved over her failure to understand me simply because she has not been in my position.
I don’t think it’s a sin to want to be somewhere else. I believe it is fine, as long as you can still be grateful for everything you enjoy and learn here, and even for the troubles and challenging things you have to face now, not that you should pretend to enjoy what you can’t, but to realize that they are usually the things that shape you into a better person.
For me, this awareness of the impossibility of being content in one particular place is also a kind of epiphany. It shows me that nowhere in this world will really make me feel home. Cos I’m not home already, there’s always a part of me longing for somewhere else where I’m meant to be. Hey, you’re wrong—I’m not talking about Italy. This place must be much more beautiful than any place we know of, so beautiful that we hardly can imagine this place exist at all. And that’s where other problem lies, i.e. in our inability to have a proper imagination or picture of that place.
(Now I’m gonna quote C.S Lewis heavily) We actually have some symbols to help us imagine it—yet, because of their limited brain, people are usually too dumb to understand. Some of them sneer that they do not want ‘to spend eternity playing harps’ (heck, I love violin so much yet I don’t think I want to spend more than two hours playing it at a time!). Those symbols are used to express the inexpressible. Music for ecstasy and infinity, crown for divine splendor and glory, and gold for timelessness of that place (cos gold doesn’t rust). And if it is not enough, the absence of pain, fear, sorrow (and all those unpleasant feelings) is added on.
Unfortunately, I know that some people are not going to make it, no matter how hard they’ve tried (try to be good as you can, try to give as much as you can, at the most you can only be the least imperfect person in the world, but still perfection won’t allow imperfection in any amount), if they know not the right way to go there. Anyhow, the questions that remain with me now are: what if some of them are people we know, or worse, people we love and wish well? Will the remembrance of them and their absence in that place make us sad? (while it is said there will be no tears), or will we be too consumed with joy that we forget about them? (which sounds selfish to my ears). Again, my questions don’t mean that I doubt about the existence of that place. It is rather like someone who still doesn’t grasp all the formulae while she fully believes that mathematics do exist.
Alright, to those who’ve been patient to read until this far: If you happen to be longing to be somewhere else and wonder whether by wanting it you’ve become an ungrateful chap, I just want you to think it over again and never let your dreams go so easily (unless that still small voice urges you to, which I think will not happen too often, cos when we become more united with it we tend to have similar thoughts and desires), just because some people insensitively misunderstand and judge you. Cos who knows if the tug is actually inspired by something greater than your own desire and longing for adventures and experiencing new things?
But don’t delude yourself that there will be a perfect place in this imperfect world. No, not until we get to that place beyond this world, in which we finally will be able to say, ‘we’re bound to be home, and this is our home for eternity, and we don’t want to go elsewhere anymore’.
It’s relieving to know that I’m not the only one. Yet it’s also alarming to think that a place you’ve imagined would make you a happier person (if only you could live in it), apparently has failed to do so to others (who are already living there). A dreamer wishes to see more of the world, and yet has to fret because her humdrum routine work makes her feel as if she’s being grounded. And yet a world traveler might long for a year when he can finally settle in one place rather than moving around like a nomad. A woman in her mid-thirties might long for a long-awaited soulmate who’d come to snatch her from her ‘weird singlehood’ (as my friend Danielle put it) and make her his queen in some Timbuktu land where she once has been. And maybe they will breed a litter of kids so she won’t have to be alone anymore, won’t be confused anymore of what to do when time is abundant. And yet a young wife with a handful baby to raise thinks she’d give anything to just have 5 minute for herself, to be alone, to be quiet, without having to worry about breastfeeding her kids, putting up with mom in law, or her once romantic husband who’d grown cold. Or a youngster who dreams of being an expat, living and making money in some far away country, tasting new cuisines he only hears of in some culinary shows on TV, and yet has to be satisfied feeding himself with instant noodles, especially at the end of a month when he has spent nearly all his last month’s salary and has not yet received the next.
And those were a few examples to mention. And like I told you before, I am one of them too. Above all places in the whole universe, I want to go to Italy, and maybe some of you are already sick of hearing me say those words again and again.
Few days ago a friend of mine sent me a well-written short story depicting Milan (which made me rack my brain and flip my dictionary in my efforts to understand it---it’s in Italian). It didn’t tell about the exquisite panettone with gelato inside which would make your mouth water, nor about the exhilarating soccer match in San Siro stadium (which I want to see one day), nor about those tame doves which would surround you in front of the famous Duomo. In short, it was a story of Milan from the point of view of someone who probably had lived there all of her life. Down to earth, realistic, and at some point, poignant too. Strangely, it made me think of Jakarta: Same problems, similar dilemmas. Then why on earth do I (still) think that I would enjoy Milan (or at least tolerate it more) than I do Jakarta?
Beats me.
I’m a kind of person who’s easy to please but hard to satisfy. But I guess, most of us are. We tend to think that other places must be better, must be more pleasant or exciting than where we are now, simply because it is different than what we’re accustomed to. But once the honeymoon period is over, we are faced with the same old drudgery, and start to long for somewhere else. Again.
Is it selfish to be so?
Some self-conceited people do think so. One of them accused my selfless and talented friend of being selfish simply because he said he wanted to go abroad. Why not stay in your homeland, there are lots of souls needed your help, lots of chances to serve the Lord here—were the bases of the accusation. The thing is, that man is not God, and who is he to judge my friend whom he’d just met once? And if he also left his own country to be here, then why smirking at someone else who wanted to do what he himself had done? A dear friend of mine implied a similar accusation to me a while ago. I understand why she thinks so, though I have never been in her position. But I grieved over her failure to understand me simply because she has not been in my position.
I don’t think it’s a sin to want to be somewhere else. I believe it is fine, as long as you can still be grateful for everything you enjoy and learn here, and even for the troubles and challenging things you have to face now, not that you should pretend to enjoy what you can’t, but to realize that they are usually the things that shape you into a better person.
For me, this awareness of the impossibility of being content in one particular place is also a kind of epiphany. It shows me that nowhere in this world will really make me feel home. Cos I’m not home already, there’s always a part of me longing for somewhere else where I’m meant to be. Hey, you’re wrong—I’m not talking about Italy. This place must be much more beautiful than any place we know of, so beautiful that we hardly can imagine this place exist at all. And that’s where other problem lies, i.e. in our inability to have a proper imagination or picture of that place.
(Now I’m gonna quote C.S Lewis heavily) We actually have some symbols to help us imagine it—yet, because of their limited brain, people are usually too dumb to understand. Some of them sneer that they do not want ‘to spend eternity playing harps’ (heck, I love violin so much yet I don’t think I want to spend more than two hours playing it at a time!). Those symbols are used to express the inexpressible. Music for ecstasy and infinity, crown for divine splendor and glory, and gold for timelessness of that place (cos gold doesn’t rust). And if it is not enough, the absence of pain, fear, sorrow (and all those unpleasant feelings) is added on.
Unfortunately, I know that some people are not going to make it, no matter how hard they’ve tried (try to be good as you can, try to give as much as you can, at the most you can only be the least imperfect person in the world, but still perfection won’t allow imperfection in any amount), if they know not the right way to go there. Anyhow, the questions that remain with me now are: what if some of them are people we know, or worse, people we love and wish well? Will the remembrance of them and their absence in that place make us sad? (while it is said there will be no tears), or will we be too consumed with joy that we forget about them? (which sounds selfish to my ears). Again, my questions don’t mean that I doubt about the existence of that place. It is rather like someone who still doesn’t grasp all the formulae while she fully believes that mathematics do exist.
Alright, to those who’ve been patient to read until this far: If you happen to be longing to be somewhere else and wonder whether by wanting it you’ve become an ungrateful chap, I just want you to think it over again and never let your dreams go so easily (unless that still small voice urges you to, which I think will not happen too often, cos when we become more united with it we tend to have similar thoughts and desires), just because some people insensitively misunderstand and judge you. Cos who knows if the tug is actually inspired by something greater than your own desire and longing for adventures and experiencing new things?
But don’t delude yourself that there will be a perfect place in this imperfect world. No, not until we get to that place beyond this world, in which we finally will be able to say, ‘we’re bound to be home, and this is our home for eternity, and we don’t want to go elsewhere anymore’.
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