From 11 to 1, and Il Dottore is back in the business again!
So fun to watch MotoGP Assen with the two guys of my life, all of us were hoping to be entertained with a great race, and ended up satisfied by the cool performance of Valentino Rossi.
To be honest, for me it’s hard to choose between si Rookie and si Rossi… both are impressive lately. My head usually picks Stoner, but of course, my heart goes for Rossi always (maklumlah, kita sebangsa dan setanah air huehehehe…)
Last week my head was right, this time my heart won in the three last laps, which made everything more fun and more entertaining. And, it was so beautiful to hear Fratelli D’Italia again at the podium.
Also congrats for Hayden for tasting his first podium this season, but….VIVA VALE PER SEMPRE!
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
CORAGGIO!
I was awakened from my slumber by a beep of my cellphone. The message reads:
When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully. You know why, only one of the two things will happen: Either He’ll catch you when you fall, or He’ll teach you to fly.
I was struck by the power of encouragement in it. Yeah, it’s something I can really use today, after getting one of the worst news in my life.
If I look back to my endless efforts, buoyant anticipation, high expectation and unwavering confidence, along with unquenchable enthusiasm and unbeatable determination to get what I really want and what I believe I really deserve more than anyone else in this world, of course, ending up not getting it, nay… even not being given a chance to prove it in the first place, is supposed to feel like a slap on my face, a pierce in my flesh, a wrench to my heart and a blow to my head.
BUT, to my surprise, I found myself so matured dealing with it, calmed beyond explanation and I haven’t even shed any tears so far. In fact, I slept soundly. What a miracle, to realize that my hope is not lost, my passion is not dead yet, and my love is not fading away, at one sentence or two from some people who don’t know me well, hence don’t have the slightest idea that they have slammed the door right before my face when I was hoping so much to enter inside, because they chose to close their eyes at my hard works.
That’s okay. I have done my best, and that’s what really counts. And no… no… their no will not end my life nor kill my hope. Rather, it is like a rod which makes a horse run faster, faster, and faster….
I believe everything is beautiful in its season. A seed has to die first to be able to grow. Lazarus had to die first to glorify the Lord when he finally was resurrected. So have I now, learning how to die. It’s not too painful when you understand that it is not the end. Rather, a beginning of new life.
Most important, I am not afraid anymore to keep dreaming big. When it’s not turned out the way I have expected, I believe it’s only a temporary sleep, not eternal death. A delay, not a cancellation. A closing of one door, but the windows are still wide open. Yeah… coraggio!!!!!!
(thanks for the sms, Ryan… it was like a drop of water when I was walking in the desert)
When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully. You know why, only one of the two things will happen: Either He’ll catch you when you fall, or He’ll teach you to fly.
I was struck by the power of encouragement in it. Yeah, it’s something I can really use today, after getting one of the worst news in my life.
If I look back to my endless efforts, buoyant anticipation, high expectation and unwavering confidence, along with unquenchable enthusiasm and unbeatable determination to get what I really want and what I believe I really deserve more than anyone else in this world, of course, ending up not getting it, nay… even not being given a chance to prove it in the first place, is supposed to feel like a slap on my face, a pierce in my flesh, a wrench to my heart and a blow to my head.
BUT, to my surprise, I found myself so matured dealing with it, calmed beyond explanation and I haven’t even shed any tears so far. In fact, I slept soundly. What a miracle, to realize that my hope is not lost, my passion is not dead yet, and my love is not fading away, at one sentence or two from some people who don’t know me well, hence don’t have the slightest idea that they have slammed the door right before my face when I was hoping so much to enter inside, because they chose to close their eyes at my hard works.
That’s okay. I have done my best, and that’s what really counts. And no… no… their no will not end my life nor kill my hope. Rather, it is like a rod which makes a horse run faster, faster, and faster….
I believe everything is beautiful in its season. A seed has to die first to be able to grow. Lazarus had to die first to glorify the Lord when he finally was resurrected. So have I now, learning how to die. It’s not too painful when you understand that it is not the end. Rather, a beginning of new life.
Most important, I am not afraid anymore to keep dreaming big. When it’s not turned out the way I have expected, I believe it’s only a temporary sleep, not eternal death. A delay, not a cancellation. A closing of one door, but the windows are still wide open. Yeah… coraggio!!!!!!
(thanks for the sms, Ryan… it was like a drop of water when I was walking in the desert)
Sunday, June 17, 2007
REMEMBERING ACEH
Last night I spent some time reading the journals I made back in Aceh, 2.5 years ago (Is it really that long ago, seems like yesterday to me). Several days before my departure, my journal entry read, I got a hunch that I’m going to meet someone very special there. It’s not just a hope or prayer, it’s a faith.
But Aceh was so unpredictable.
I had anticipated social rejection, traumatized people, chaos, blood, building ruins, dead corpses and tears everywhere… (yes, I had experienced some of that too later on…), but the very first ‘problem’ that I encountered (or should I say we instead?) was…. the bathroom dilemma. We had one bathroom only for around 10 people, with limited water supply. The one I had to use had no roof, and the water container was so icky and muddy you could not help wondering, would bathing really make you cleaner, or even dirtier.
Absorbed in page after page of my own scrawls during my stay there, I was surprised to be reminded about my mixed feelings at that time; from excited and fearful anticipative to bored, overwhelmingly sad, frustrated and full of fatigue, yearning for some time alone and to get away from the crowd (but could not, cos afraid to be kidnapped by the separatists), angry and annoyed, moved, thrilled, compassionate…. and finally, counting the days til I could go home.
Yet, when I remember my time there now, I only can do it with delight and warmth in my heart. Despite all the difficulties, there were also lots of laughter, smiles, jokes, loving service and affection being shown, even among strangers who came from many different nationalities, a hard-working team which inspired me to do my best without expecting any reward.
And, instead of meeting only someone special, I met many special people, people so selfless and passionate in doing good for the suffering ones. And though, our friendship kinda ‘ended’ (except for some scanty e-mail exchange or a phone call once in a blue moon), as our term was up and we had to separate going our own ways, I found at least someone, who stayed, and stays closer to me, to my heart, to my life as we got to shared so much in the following days, even until now and I hope forever more.
(Doc Wu, you know you’re the one I’m talking about!)
But Aceh was so unpredictable.
I had anticipated social rejection, traumatized people, chaos, blood, building ruins, dead corpses and tears everywhere… (yes, I had experienced some of that too later on…), but the very first ‘problem’ that I encountered (or should I say we instead?) was…. the bathroom dilemma. We had one bathroom only for around 10 people, with limited water supply. The one I had to use had no roof, and the water container was so icky and muddy you could not help wondering, would bathing really make you cleaner, or even dirtier.
Absorbed in page after page of my own scrawls during my stay there, I was surprised to be reminded about my mixed feelings at that time; from excited and fearful anticipative to bored, overwhelmingly sad, frustrated and full of fatigue, yearning for some time alone and to get away from the crowd (but could not, cos afraid to be kidnapped by the separatists), angry and annoyed, moved, thrilled, compassionate…. and finally, counting the days til I could go home.
Yet, when I remember my time there now, I only can do it with delight and warmth in my heart. Despite all the difficulties, there were also lots of laughter, smiles, jokes, loving service and affection being shown, even among strangers who came from many different nationalities, a hard-working team which inspired me to do my best without expecting any reward.
And, instead of meeting only someone special, I met many special people, people so selfless and passionate in doing good for the suffering ones. And though, our friendship kinda ‘ended’ (except for some scanty e-mail exchange or a phone call once in a blue moon), as our term was up and we had to separate going our own ways, I found at least someone, who stayed, and stays closer to me, to my heart, to my life as we got to shared so much in the following days, even until now and I hope forever more.
(Doc Wu, you know you’re the one I’m talking about!)
REDEFINED POINT OF VIEW
Yesterday morning I heard a heart-wrenching but happy ending testimony of a converted ex-transvestite (let’s call him Jon), born with birth defect so horrendous that his own Dad thought of him as a curse instead of a son. He was without legs, so when he stands, he’ll just reach your waist.
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naïve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naïve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)
REDEFINED POINT OF VIEW
Yesterday morning I heard a heart-wrenching but happy ending testimony of a converted ex-transvestite (let’s call him Jon), born with birth defect so horrendous that his own Dad thought of him as a curse instead of a son. He was without legs, so when he stands, he’ll just reach your waist.
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naïve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)
Yesterday morning I heard a heart-wrenching but happy ending testimony of a converted ex-transvestite (let’s call him Jon), born with birth defect so horrendous that his own Dad thought of him as a curse instead of a son. He was without legs, so when he stands, he’ll just reach your waist.
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naïve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)
PRAISED PLAGIARISM…BLAH!
This morning one of my nephews who ‘inherited’ my avidity in reading came to my room and reported, “Aunty, I found a comic book that really looks like Tin-tin at the bookstore yesterday…look!”
As I scrutinized the comic in my hand, I could not agree with him more.
Alright, the name of the main protagonist is not the same (almost similar though…), but he looks like Tin-tin, not blondie but brunette, and instead of having a dog as his company in investigating and catching bad guys, his company is a girl. The setting is being made believe to be as Indonesian as possible, but really, it’s a copy cat of Tin-tin.
It’s like a cookie taken from the same mold, not with the same ingredients and they added some other stuff here and there, and of course, the taste is not even half as good. Besides, I’ve already lost my respect. No imitation shines as good as the original one, and you just simply can’t argue with it.
There’s even an imitation of Doctor Calculus and my beloved Captain Haddock, only his vocabulary of cussing and swearing is not that impressive. As a big fan of Tin-tin, I am terribly offended!
Furiously, I flipped over the pages to look of any ‘disclaimer’, or better, any ‘acknowledgement’ for their efforts of imitating the famous Tin-tin, or anything stating, “We have got the permission from Herge blablabla” or whatever, that would probably justify it a little bit.
Instead, I found some reviews from some supposedly top dogs, bragging about it being the breakthrough in the comic world of Indonesia, ladies and gentlemen… very original, very Indonesia…local comic that deserves to be put alongside the world class ones…BLAH!!! Shed me some light here, am I the only one here who knows TINTIN??? Get out of it!
However, I still wanted to compromise. It might be different in content, I thought, so I started to read it. I only could do it til page 10, and then I tossed away that book in resentment, imagining Herge rolling restless in his tomb if only he knows about it.
Being objective, the illustration is not bad. Pretty good actually, which makes me even sadder. What a wasted, misused talent. Why not trying to make something of your own (you can do it if you try!), why committing plagiarism and forcing people to ‘praise’ it. Isn’t it enough that all our TV series are but copycats of some foreign dramas?
As I scrutinized the comic in my hand, I could not agree with him more.
Alright, the name of the main protagonist is not the same (almost similar though…), but he looks like Tin-tin, not blondie but brunette, and instead of having a dog as his company in investigating and catching bad guys, his company is a girl. The setting is being made believe to be as Indonesian as possible, but really, it’s a copy cat of Tin-tin.
It’s like a cookie taken from the same mold, not with the same ingredients and they added some other stuff here and there, and of course, the taste is not even half as good. Besides, I’ve already lost my respect. No imitation shines as good as the original one, and you just simply can’t argue with it.
There’s even an imitation of Doctor Calculus and my beloved Captain Haddock, only his vocabulary of cussing and swearing is not that impressive. As a big fan of Tin-tin, I am terribly offended!
Furiously, I flipped over the pages to look of any ‘disclaimer’, or better, any ‘acknowledgement’ for their efforts of imitating the famous Tin-tin, or anything stating, “We have got the permission from Herge blablabla” or whatever, that would probably justify it a little bit.
Instead, I found some reviews from some supposedly top dogs, bragging about it being the breakthrough in the comic world of Indonesia, ladies and gentlemen… very original, very Indonesia…local comic that deserves to be put alongside the world class ones…BLAH!!! Shed me some light here, am I the only one here who knows TINTIN??? Get out of it!
However, I still wanted to compromise. It might be different in content, I thought, so I started to read it. I only could do it til page 10, and then I tossed away that book in resentment, imagining Herge rolling restless in his tomb if only he knows about it.
Being objective, the illustration is not bad. Pretty good actually, which makes me even sadder. What a wasted, misused talent. Why not trying to make something of your own (you can do it if you try!), why committing plagiarism and forcing people to ‘praise’ it. Isn’t it enough that all our TV series are but copycats of some foreign dramas?
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
MY TWO BIGGEST ENEMIES
… now are solitude (hence, loneliness) and boredom—those two make me a sloth, really. I want to write but I’m lazy, napping is not that refreshing anymore, and reading is not that exciting cos the stories are too thin.
All I want is a company, to just talk and be around me.
Only practicing violin makes me happy, but still my hands and shoulders could not cooperate as long as my heart wants. Oh well, maybe I should start cooking with Mom….
All I want is a company, to just talk and be around me.
Only practicing violin makes me happy, but still my hands and shoulders could not cooperate as long as my heart wants. Oh well, maybe I should start cooking with Mom….
BETTER THAN PULITZER PRIZE
Last week I wrote a super lengthy letter (around 10 pages), conventional one (with paper and ink, I mean) to one of my best friends since college. She was the most faithful listener I’ve ever met. We shared the same boarding house for almost four years, got through lots of spiritual phases together, and spent lots of time talking heart to heart, almost about anything.
I will always remember how patient she was in listening to all my incessant rambling about my crush(es), my dreams, my thoughts, my feelings, my fears…. She is one of the very few people with whom I am not afraid to show her me, just the way I am—whether I was feeling down, negative, or even sometimes, dark.
When I was in Aceh, I wrote to her everyday, in a book, and then I sent it to her when my voluntary work was done. I knew she would not write back, at least not as much as I wrote her, cos writing is not her strong point. But it never stopped me from sharing with her, and writing seems to be the most economical way to do it cos she now lives in her hometown, in a different island. Ironically, Jambi, where she lives, is basically the only big town in
SumatraI never had a chance to step in. Hopefully someday…
Anyway, yesterday she sms-ed me to inform that my package (i.e those pages, one copy of my novel, and 5 CD’s full of songs and my pics) had arrived, and she told me that my letter really encouraged her and reminded her once again that God was, and is real.
And really, knowing that my writing could make a difference in someone else’s day by encouraging her and reminding her of God’s goodness, it means the world to me. I’d rather touch and build up somebody’s life with my private writings that probably won’t make me famous or rich, than say… winning a Pulitzer prize, or even a nobel (which can be nice too, if it ever happens to me)
Yes, fame and money and satisfaction of having accomplished something taste really nice, but to think that what you write, what you tell, and what you feel (no matter what it is) have brought a smile upon a formerly cloudy face, and sparks to an almost dying flame, or some cheerfulness to a lonely heart—it tastes even better, cos it is so personal, and hence, much more meaningful.
After all, someone’s heart and soul are much more precious than any worldly acknowledgements, at least for a touchy feely person like me.
I will always remember how patient she was in listening to all my incessant rambling about my crush(es), my dreams, my thoughts, my feelings, my fears…. She is one of the very few people with whom I am not afraid to show her me, just the way I am—whether I was feeling down, negative, or even sometimes, dark.
When I was in Aceh, I wrote to her everyday, in a book, and then I sent it to her when my voluntary work was done. I knew she would not write back, at least not as much as I wrote her, cos writing is not her strong point. But it never stopped me from sharing with her, and writing seems to be the most economical way to do it cos she now lives in her hometown, in a different island. Ironically, Jambi, where she lives, is basically the only big town in
SumatraI never had a chance to step in. Hopefully someday…
Anyway, yesterday she sms-ed me to inform that my package (i.e those pages, one copy of my novel, and 5 CD’s full of songs and my pics) had arrived, and she told me that my letter really encouraged her and reminded her once again that God was, and is real.
And really, knowing that my writing could make a difference in someone else’s day by encouraging her and reminding her of God’s goodness, it means the world to me. I’d rather touch and build up somebody’s life with my private writings that probably won’t make me famous or rich, than say… winning a Pulitzer prize, or even a nobel (which can be nice too, if it ever happens to me)
Yes, fame and money and satisfaction of having accomplished something taste really nice, but to think that what you write, what you tell, and what you feel (no matter what it is) have brought a smile upon a formerly cloudy face, and sparks to an almost dying flame, or some cheerfulness to a lonely heart—it tastes even better, cos it is so personal, and hence, much more meaningful.
After all, someone’s heart and soul are much more precious than any worldly acknowledgements, at least for a touchy feely person like me.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
AWWW...TURNING 26! (….and being in love)
The image that flashes in my mind lately is Jennifer Anniston trying to bang the door when her friends were trying to make her a surprise party, she was turning 30 in FRIENDS… when I saw it I thought it was odd, how could someone be that afraid of birthday??
But oohhh… I guess now I can share a little bit of that feeling. The last two years my birthdays were always so full of people, laughter, gifts, surprise parties with cakes, balloons, confetti and trumpets… just like I wanted them to be. But today, I had a quiet birthday, still just like I wanted it to be.
I’m 26, feeling like a woman, but at the same time, I know I am still a girl deep inside my heart, and I will always be like that.
Being a woman seems to be so full of responsibilities, and I know that the most often asked question from now on will be, “When will you get married?” instead of “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I was tempted to wonder, would turning 26 be less scary if only I had found my soulmate? But then I realized that a lover’s love will be but an icing on top of the cake, because I already got the greatest love of all—love so perfect and beautiful, selfless and flawless, poured down on me abundantly, though I don’t deserve it at all. I feel and see this love inside me, and all around me, in my parents’ smile and service, in my siblings’ affection and supports, in my nephews’ innocence, in the prayers and loving attention of my brothers and sisters in Christ, and even in the laughter, stories and friendship I had a privilege to share with some people I haven’t met yet—yes, most of them are scattered in so many different places, but yet, we are so close in our hearts, bound and united by the greatest love ever.
Yes, thinking about how time flies makes me scared, scared to let these years pass by so quickly without accomplishing my duties. Sometimes, I want to go back to the great ole’ days and wish that time stopped back when I was 22… but I know that life goes on and there is a bright future waiting for me ahead.
So, instead of being freaked out or panicked or worried unnecessarily, this morning I made a resolution. I asked my true love to find me in the river, I asked him to bring me to my knees with my soul lay bare in front of him, and I said to him once again that I would gladly take up my cross to follow him, and if our path were stony and for some reasons he chose not to carry me, I would be willing to walk with my knees, as long as he holds my hand and never lets me go, cos he is all I’ve ever needed. I am thankful for his faithfulness, for the blessings and joy, and even tears and sorrow he has allowed to come in my life—knowing that they all will shape me into a better person.
Yes, on my birthday, I’m falling in love deeper with someone who has always been loving me unconditionally, and this feeling is greater than any chemistry or romantic story. This one I definitely want to keep forever….
But oohhh… I guess now I can share a little bit of that feeling. The last two years my birthdays were always so full of people, laughter, gifts, surprise parties with cakes, balloons, confetti and trumpets… just like I wanted them to be. But today, I had a quiet birthday, still just like I wanted it to be.
I’m 26, feeling like a woman, but at the same time, I know I am still a girl deep inside my heart, and I will always be like that.
Being a woman seems to be so full of responsibilities, and I know that the most often asked question from now on will be, “When will you get married?” instead of “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I was tempted to wonder, would turning 26 be less scary if only I had found my soulmate? But then I realized that a lover’s love will be but an icing on top of the cake, because I already got the greatest love of all—love so perfect and beautiful, selfless and flawless, poured down on me abundantly, though I don’t deserve it at all. I feel and see this love inside me, and all around me, in my parents’ smile and service, in my siblings’ affection and supports, in my nephews’ innocence, in the prayers and loving attention of my brothers and sisters in Christ, and even in the laughter, stories and friendship I had a privilege to share with some people I haven’t met yet—yes, most of them are scattered in so many different places, but yet, we are so close in our hearts, bound and united by the greatest love ever.
Yes, thinking about how time flies makes me scared, scared to let these years pass by so quickly without accomplishing my duties. Sometimes, I want to go back to the great ole’ days and wish that time stopped back when I was 22… but I know that life goes on and there is a bright future waiting for me ahead.
So, instead of being freaked out or panicked or worried unnecessarily, this morning I made a resolution. I asked my true love to find me in the river, I asked him to bring me to my knees with my soul lay bare in front of him, and I said to him once again that I would gladly take up my cross to follow him, and if our path were stony and for some reasons he chose not to carry me, I would be willing to walk with my knees, as long as he holds my hand and never lets me go, cos he is all I’ve ever needed. I am thankful for his faithfulness, for the blessings and joy, and even tears and sorrow he has allowed to come in my life—knowing that they all will shape me into a better person.
Yes, on my birthday, I’m falling in love deeper with someone who has always been loving me unconditionally, and this feeling is greater than any chemistry or romantic story. This one I definitely want to keep forever….
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
DOCTOR LAZARUS
Dr. Lazarus used to serve in the military army, but now he sees his patients in his house. However, his army uniform still served him well when he bravely entered a burning church and saved the old priest that was trapped there, both left the building wrapped in army uniforms, unnoticed by the rioters.
Most of the people in town love him: young and old, rich or poor, from all different religious and cultural backgrounds, they all come to him when they’re sick. The medicine in his pharmacy cost much less than in other places. And quite often, he refuses to accept money from poor people, and let them come to him for free.
His wife left him for another man, a man who probably would not leave her in the middle of the night to help some dying patient. But don’t feel too sorry for this, because he already remarried to another doctor’s widow, who surely would understand him more.
Anyway, a couple of months ago, the whole town was stirred and troubled to hear that this kind-hearted doctor passed away. As whispers and hearsays spread, more and more of his faithful fans knew about it, passed the information to others, and together were deeply mourning for him. Some said they could not believe it, and some wondered where they would go when they got sick and had no money.
They themselves had not seen his body, cos rumors said that he passed away in a hospital abroad. One of the old ladies could not stand it and decided to call his nurse to ask for a confirmation about his death. And she could not be happier to hear that Dr. Lazarus didn’t die, he did go abroad due to a major health problem but the treatment went well and he survived!
And so the whole town was moved again by this good news. I personally don’t really remember his face, but I joined the people rejoicing in his ‘resurrection’. Surely a man like him deserves a long life, and many many years to come to help people with his devotion and generosity, and I pray that many young doctors will also be inspired by it and be like him.
Most of the people in town love him: young and old, rich or poor, from all different religious and cultural backgrounds, they all come to him when they’re sick. The medicine in his pharmacy cost much less than in other places. And quite often, he refuses to accept money from poor people, and let them come to him for free.
His wife left him for another man, a man who probably would not leave her in the middle of the night to help some dying patient. But don’t feel too sorry for this, because he already remarried to another doctor’s widow, who surely would understand him more.
Anyway, a couple of months ago, the whole town was stirred and troubled to hear that this kind-hearted doctor passed away. As whispers and hearsays spread, more and more of his faithful fans knew about it, passed the information to others, and together were deeply mourning for him. Some said they could not believe it, and some wondered where they would go when they got sick and had no money.
They themselves had not seen his body, cos rumors said that he passed away in a hospital abroad. One of the old ladies could not stand it and decided to call his nurse to ask for a confirmation about his death. And she could not be happier to hear that Dr. Lazarus didn’t die, he did go abroad due to a major health problem but the treatment went well and he survived!
And so the whole town was moved again by this good news. I personally don’t really remember his face, but I joined the people rejoicing in his ‘resurrection’. Surely a man like him deserves a long life, and many many years to come to help people with his devotion and generosity, and I pray that many young doctors will also be inspired by it and be like him.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
MY DAD’S FAVOURITE POMEGRANATE TREE…
..is now just a history…
Yeah, yesterday afternoon, we tasted a little bit of Jakarta flood, when the heavy rain was pouring mercilessly along with a scary super whirling wind (I’ve never seen such a wild wind like that in my life!) that made roofs fly and trees fall down, including this pomegranate that had been there since I was a child.
Dad had a hard time parting with it, he suggested us to pull back the falling tree, but we didn’t have time for that since it was too heavy and it was already blocking the small road so people would not be able to pass through. And so my brother took a saw and machete and that was the end of our pomegranate tree, which happened to be so full with buds and flowers and some fruits already.
The neighbors also are making a fuss about it. The Sundanese people need pomegranates to make ‘rujak’, a special fruit salad every time they celebrate the 7 month pregnancy. Without that fruit, the salad will not be valid. It is believed that if the food is hot, the baby will be a boy, and vice versa (no matter how much pepper you add to it!). So, our pomegranates had served our local community very well, and it also had taught my tiny feet to climb.
Well, rest in peace.
Yeah, yesterday afternoon, we tasted a little bit of Jakarta flood, when the heavy rain was pouring mercilessly along with a scary super whirling wind (I’ve never seen such a wild wind like that in my life!) that made roofs fly and trees fall down, including this pomegranate that had been there since I was a child.
Dad had a hard time parting with it, he suggested us to pull back the falling tree, but we didn’t have time for that since it was too heavy and it was already blocking the small road so people would not be able to pass through. And so my brother took a saw and machete and that was the end of our pomegranate tree, which happened to be so full with buds and flowers and some fruits already.
The neighbors also are making a fuss about it. The Sundanese people need pomegranates to make ‘rujak’, a special fruit salad every time they celebrate the 7 month pregnancy. Without that fruit, the salad will not be valid. It is believed that if the food is hot, the baby will be a boy, and vice versa (no matter how much pepper you add to it!). So, our pomegranates had served our local community very well, and it also had taught my tiny feet to climb.
Well, rest in peace.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
TRA PAGLIUCA E MALDINI… (this posting is ode to Gianluca Pagliuca actually)
C’è concorrenza!
Eh, yes…between Pagliuca and Maldini, there is a heating rivalry of making a record in Italian soccer history as the player with the most caps in serie A. Right now Maldini is leading with 597 caps, and Pagliuca 590.
I don’t know if Pagliuca really cares about this (based on game duration, he already won because you know if you’re a goalkeeper, you are rarely replaced unless seriously injured or red-carded) but I found myself eagerly waiting for him to beat Maldini’s record! (no offense, Milanisti!).
That’s why I was so disappointed to know that all some remaining matches (including Ascoli vs Milan that I was all ready to watch!) were cancelled due to a riot in a stadium during the match of Catania vs Palermo that killed one policeman, and so the whole league is now stopped for awhile (thanks to Daniele for keeping me updated about this).
I mean, how often can you see Ascoli play on TV now they’re in the last place? I feel a little bit sentimental about Pagliuca right now because this might be the last season for him before he retires. And even since I was 14, I wrote to him every season, to wish him well. And guess what, he never failed to reply!
I’ve been a great fan of him since he played for Inter, and then moved to Bologna, and now Ascoli. I missed the period where he played for Sampdoria and was given a nickname “Re della Samp” because I was too small to understand about football back then.
I liked it when he played as the number one goalie of Italian national team, and I remembered my fervent prayers for him once, when the world cup 1998 was about to begin. Amongst the budding younger Italian goalies, he still made it to be number two before Angelo Peruzzi, and I know that unless he became the number one, there’s no way I could see him play for azzurri (cos again, a number one goalkeeper is rarely replaced during the game and even for the whole tournament, you know). And so I did not want him to sit on the bench as a substitute! I think it was a week before the world cup begun, I read that Peruzzi was injured and could not go to France, and so Pagliuca became the number one. I truly did not pray anything bad against Peruzzi, honest, but I was just so happy to have Pagliuca play again. And even when finally Italy had to loose through a penalty shoot-out against France, I think Pagliuca is a million much better than Barthez!
Really, I don’t think I will ever like any footballer as much as I like him. I like the way he jumps and climbs up his post and hangs in there for awhile watching the ball fly to high above his goal. I like the way he puffed his cheeks and kissed the post in relief when it blocked the ball from going in. I even like his decision to let himself be red-carded once in world cup 1994, for it was rather a sacrificial and heroic red card, and not a foolish one like Beckham or Zidane got. Yes he’s a bit eccentric sometimes, but never obnoxious.
Yeah, it’s been years, and oh, I really wish he would play some more years, though I’ve witnessed him jump, catch, block, kick, and punch the ball, saving his team(s) million times. I was there greeting my teeth in anger when Giuseppe Pancaro dared to spit in his face and understood when he ran after him to give him a punch, or when someone (I think it was Nicola Caccia) pulled his pants off and yet he still had other thing (the ball) to worry about. And I will not forget that snowy night in Russia when he had to be carried out of the field, badly injured. I went back to bed, tears in my eyes and nervously waited for tomorrow to come to find out how he was doing (yes, yes, yes, I only watched those on tv, sometimes at night, sometimes at dawn, but the feelings were real, you know).
And some of my friends asked me in wonder. They said, “Why do you like this guy so much? What benefits will you get if his team wins?” But they just didn’t understand, that even if he gives me nothing but the blues, I still go for him!
Until now, I still keep the collection of the cuts-outs about him that I arranged in a book, along with all the autographed postcards he sent me, and a historical handwriting note (that made me start learning Italian!)
Too bad, age creeps like a thief and so now he’s thinking of retiring soon, if Ascoli remains in serie A next season. I really hope that his son Mattia (age 7), will be a great footballer someday, as his father has been.
Viva Pagliuca!
Eh, yes…between Pagliuca and Maldini, there is a heating rivalry of making a record in Italian soccer history as the player with the most caps in serie A. Right now Maldini is leading with 597 caps, and Pagliuca 590.
I don’t know if Pagliuca really cares about this (based on game duration, he already won because you know if you’re a goalkeeper, you are rarely replaced unless seriously injured or red-carded) but I found myself eagerly waiting for him to beat Maldini’s record! (no offense, Milanisti!).
That’s why I was so disappointed to know that all some remaining matches (including Ascoli vs Milan that I was all ready to watch!) were cancelled due to a riot in a stadium during the match of Catania vs Palermo that killed one policeman, and so the whole league is now stopped for awhile (thanks to Daniele for keeping me updated about this).
I mean, how often can you see Ascoli play on TV now they’re in the last place? I feel a little bit sentimental about Pagliuca right now because this might be the last season for him before he retires. And even since I was 14, I wrote to him every season, to wish him well. And guess what, he never failed to reply!
I’ve been a great fan of him since he played for Inter, and then moved to Bologna, and now Ascoli. I missed the period where he played for Sampdoria and was given a nickname “Re della Samp” because I was too small to understand about football back then.
I liked it when he played as the number one goalie of Italian national team, and I remembered my fervent prayers for him once, when the world cup 1998 was about to begin. Amongst the budding younger Italian goalies, he still made it to be number two before Angelo Peruzzi, and I know that unless he became the number one, there’s no way I could see him play for azzurri (cos again, a number one goalkeeper is rarely replaced during the game and even for the whole tournament, you know). And so I did not want him to sit on the bench as a substitute! I think it was a week before the world cup begun, I read that Peruzzi was injured and could not go to France, and so Pagliuca became the number one. I truly did not pray anything bad against Peruzzi, honest, but I was just so happy to have Pagliuca play again. And even when finally Italy had to loose through a penalty shoot-out against France, I think Pagliuca is a million much better than Barthez!
Really, I don’t think I will ever like any footballer as much as I like him. I like the way he jumps and climbs up his post and hangs in there for awhile watching the ball fly to high above his goal. I like the way he puffed his cheeks and kissed the post in relief when it blocked the ball from going in. I even like his decision to let himself be red-carded once in world cup 1994, for it was rather a sacrificial and heroic red card, and not a foolish one like Beckham or Zidane got. Yes he’s a bit eccentric sometimes, but never obnoxious.
Yeah, it’s been years, and oh, I really wish he would play some more years, though I’ve witnessed him jump, catch, block, kick, and punch the ball, saving his team(s) million times. I was there greeting my teeth in anger when Giuseppe Pancaro dared to spit in his face and understood when he ran after him to give him a punch, or when someone (I think it was Nicola Caccia) pulled his pants off and yet he still had other thing (the ball) to worry about. And I will not forget that snowy night in Russia when he had to be carried out of the field, badly injured. I went back to bed, tears in my eyes and nervously waited for tomorrow to come to find out how he was doing (yes, yes, yes, I only watched those on tv, sometimes at night, sometimes at dawn, but the feelings were real, you know).
And some of my friends asked me in wonder. They said, “Why do you like this guy so much? What benefits will you get if his team wins?” But they just didn’t understand, that even if he gives me nothing but the blues, I still go for him!
Until now, I still keep the collection of the cuts-outs about him that I arranged in a book, along with all the autographed postcards he sent me, and a historical handwriting note (that made me start learning Italian!)
Too bad, age creeps like a thief and so now he’s thinking of retiring soon, if Ascoli remains in serie A next season. I really hope that his son Mattia (age 7), will be a great footballer someday, as his father has been.
Viva Pagliuca!
Monday, February 05, 2007
Sidney Sheldon’s death
I just heard about it on TV, and I feel sad, knowing that no more books will be written by him. The last one was “Are you afraid of the dark?” which I think was out about 2 or 3 years ago. At that time I was still working at the book store (who was recently dead too, bankrupt is the better word for it), and then I bought it for my sister’s birthday two years ago.
Huuu…no more thriller stories to anticipate!
Huuu…no more thriller stories to anticipate!
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
YM KICKED ME OUT
I didn’t know why, but since two days ago I haven’t been able to log in or use YM to chat. The last person I chatted with was Ryan, and I didn’t even manage to say goodbye to him before it all went wrong. All contacts were gone, and I could not add anyone. I tried to create another ID, but it didn’t make a difference.
Well, maybe it is good to confirm my decision to not let myself be addicted to chat with someone after my working hours, and instead do something more useful. Or, it can be a sign to start using Skype now.
Anyway, my own comp is having a surgery now, so let’s wait and see what I should do after she’s back.
Well, maybe it is good to confirm my decision to not let myself be addicted to chat with someone after my working hours, and instead do something more useful. Or, it can be a sign to start using Skype now.
Anyway, my own comp is having a surgery now, so let’s wait and see what I should do after she’s back.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
BANDUNG VS THANKSGIVING
Apa hubungannya coba? Emang gak ada. Gua gak pernah ngerayain Thanksgiving di Bandung, tapi gara-gara makan malam thanksgiving hari ini dibatalin karena istri dan anak-anak bos gua ngedadak sakit, dan juga dokter gigi gua nelepon gak bisa nganiaya gua hari ini karena ngedadak diajak mertua kondangan, alhasil gua cuma bisa molor di kosan dan bangun ngedadak lapar. Inget kalkun, inget pai labu, inget sederet makanan enak yang setaun lalu bisa gua lahap sepuasnya karena gratis, mukulin piñata dengan semangat empat lima, duh serunya! Tapi tiba-tiba ada suara tok-tok-tok kedengeran merdu di kuping gua. Eh, si emang siomay Bandung lewat. Jadi deh gua makan siomay sampe eneg. Jadinya gini neh, sekarang gua kangen berat ama Bandung.
Kacida sonona nepika hayang nyoroscos we ngomong Sunda yeuh. Tapi kulantaran euweuh nu bisa nembalan, ayeunna kuring rek nulis make bahasa Sunda we lah, kajeun ngan ukur saparagraf oge, kajeun mun eweuh nu ngarti ge, nu penting mah urang ayeunna ngarasa puas jeung bagja. Emaaakkkk…hayang geura geura balik ka Tasik! (tapi nyimpang heula ka Bandung lah, kapalang).
Iya neh, gua kangen berat sama Bandung, titik! Gua pengen maen sama si Oliep, ngobrol sama si Dekol, ketemu temen-temen lama yang laen lagi, gak peduli betapa sekarang katanya Bandung udah sepanas dan semacet Jakarta, pokoknya gua mau tetep ke sana lagi!
Gua pengen mampir ke QB dan baca-baca buku tanpa harus beli (hehehehe), dan kalo beli pasti dapet diskon karena ada banyak mantan kolega gua di sana yang pada baek ati.
Sekarang yang ada di kepala gua cuma ngelewatin Natal di Bandung taun ini. Gua pengen ngerayain sama anak-anak BSG yang kayaknya udah seabad gak pernah gua liat lagi. Kalo bisa sih caroling lagi kayak tiga tahun yang lalu, tapi gua akan cukup puas cuma dengan nyanyi 12 Days of Christmas (tapi wajib pake gerakan!). Itu lagu Natal fave gua! Meskipun kedengarannya konyol, tapi sebenernya punya arti yang dalem. Setelah kebaktian dan minum apple cider bareng-bareng di BIC, gua pengen ngerumpi sampe tengah malem di cafe ama temen-temen gua, ngobrol ngalor ngidul ngelepas kangen, diingetin kalo kita semua masih punya mimpi yang perlu terus diperjuangin, dan juga masalah yang pasti bisa diatasi. Kadang kita lupa akan hal-hal kayak gitu karena tenggelam sama rutinitas sehari-hari, jadi perlu juga diingetin.
Ya udah deh... untung masih ada pesta thanksgiving yang diundur hari Minggu besok di Depok, jadi kekangenan gua ini bisa terobatin dikit dengan bayangan daging kalkun dan mashed potatoes yang nikmat...slurrp...slurrp...gak ada hubungannya sih, gua cuma lagi food coma ajah jadinya ngelantur kayak gini.
Happy Thanksgiving aja deh untuk mereka yang ngerayain! (meskipun kebanyakan mereka itu kayaknya gak akan ngerti apa yang gua omongin di sini, hehehe...salah sendiri kenapa males belajar bahasa Indonesia)
Kacida sonona nepika hayang nyoroscos we ngomong Sunda yeuh. Tapi kulantaran euweuh nu bisa nembalan, ayeunna kuring rek nulis make bahasa Sunda we lah, kajeun ngan ukur saparagraf oge, kajeun mun eweuh nu ngarti ge, nu penting mah urang ayeunna ngarasa puas jeung bagja. Emaaakkkk…hayang geura geura balik ka Tasik! (tapi nyimpang heula ka Bandung lah, kapalang).
Iya neh, gua kangen berat sama Bandung, titik! Gua pengen maen sama si Oliep, ngobrol sama si Dekol, ketemu temen-temen lama yang laen lagi, gak peduli betapa sekarang katanya Bandung udah sepanas dan semacet Jakarta, pokoknya gua mau tetep ke sana lagi!
Gua pengen mampir ke QB dan baca-baca buku tanpa harus beli (hehehehe), dan kalo beli pasti dapet diskon karena ada banyak mantan kolega gua di sana yang pada baek ati.
Sekarang yang ada di kepala gua cuma ngelewatin Natal di Bandung taun ini. Gua pengen ngerayain sama anak-anak BSG yang kayaknya udah seabad gak pernah gua liat lagi. Kalo bisa sih caroling lagi kayak tiga tahun yang lalu, tapi gua akan cukup puas cuma dengan nyanyi 12 Days of Christmas (tapi wajib pake gerakan!). Itu lagu Natal fave gua! Meskipun kedengarannya konyol, tapi sebenernya punya arti yang dalem. Setelah kebaktian dan minum apple cider bareng-bareng di BIC, gua pengen ngerumpi sampe tengah malem di cafe ama temen-temen gua, ngobrol ngalor ngidul ngelepas kangen, diingetin kalo kita semua masih punya mimpi yang perlu terus diperjuangin, dan juga masalah yang pasti bisa diatasi. Kadang kita lupa akan hal-hal kayak gitu karena tenggelam sama rutinitas sehari-hari, jadi perlu juga diingetin.
Ya udah deh... untung masih ada pesta thanksgiving yang diundur hari Minggu besok di Depok, jadi kekangenan gua ini bisa terobatin dikit dengan bayangan daging kalkun dan mashed potatoes yang nikmat...slurrp...slurrp...gak ada hubungannya sih, gua cuma lagi food coma ajah jadinya ngelantur kayak gini.
Happy Thanksgiving aja deh untuk mereka yang ngerayain! (meskipun kebanyakan mereka itu kayaknya gak akan ngerti apa yang gua omongin di sini, hehehe...salah sendiri kenapa males belajar bahasa Indonesia)
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
AAW, HIGH HEELS!
Another woman stuff I can’t understand besides mascara (that takes my precious time to put it on my eye lashes only to look like a ghost when I wash my face afterwards) is high heel shoes. I just can’t understand why most women choose to suffer wearing them around.
I had a pair once, with extremely high and sharp heels that I think I can kill someone with it. They’re lovely, but I only wore them twice before threw them away. The first time was on my sister’s wedding – soon after it’s over I got off the car with them on my arms, and started trotting to the house with bare feet. Second time, I dared to do that to church which was just around the corner of my boarding house and I was tempted to walk home without them, cos it was such a torture to wear them.
Anyway, someone just gave me another pair, and my normal heel shoes are about to fall apart so I didn’t want to risk it when going to church last Sunday. So I wore these high heel shoes but just standing with bare feet during the service. And as Mariana and I were waiting for the bus in Jakarta heat (after walking a little around the mall), I whined about my dislike toward that kind of shoes. I really missed my comfortable sneakers and flipflops. Too bad they just don’t match with skirts, eh?
But anyway, I’ve just bought a lovely pair of shoes. And they are pretty, and have no heel at all. I think I will never wear any high heels anymore. I’d rather be not so pretty without them, but free to move around comfortably, than walk like a robot and wince all the time from the pain on my feet muscle!
I had a pair once, with extremely high and sharp heels that I think I can kill someone with it. They’re lovely, but I only wore them twice before threw them away. The first time was on my sister’s wedding – soon after it’s over I got off the car with them on my arms, and started trotting to the house with bare feet. Second time, I dared to do that to church which was just around the corner of my boarding house and I was tempted to walk home without them, cos it was such a torture to wear them.
Anyway, someone just gave me another pair, and my normal heel shoes are about to fall apart so I didn’t want to risk it when going to church last Sunday. So I wore these high heel shoes but just standing with bare feet during the service. And as Mariana and I were waiting for the bus in Jakarta heat (after walking a little around the mall), I whined about my dislike toward that kind of shoes. I really missed my comfortable sneakers and flipflops. Too bad they just don’t match with skirts, eh?
But anyway, I’ve just bought a lovely pair of shoes. And they are pretty, and have no heel at all. I think I will never wear any high heels anymore. I’d rather be not so pretty without them, but free to move around comfortably, than walk like a robot and wince all the time from the pain on my feet muscle!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
SHOPPING AND ME
are actually not good friends. It's one of least fave things to do. So, you'll enjoy shopping with me, guys, cos it is usually super fast, and not very often.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
MOSQUITO V CROCODILE (WHICH ONE IS WORSE?)
To be honest, I’d never seen more mosquitoes in my whole life than last night.
Mosquitoes that had lain dormant through the long drought now hatched and rose from the forest floor in clouds so thick they filled our mouths and nostrils. I learned to draw back my lips and breathe slowly through my teeth so I wouldn’t choke on mosquitoes. When they’d covered our hands and faces with red welts they flew up our sleeves and needled our armpits. We scratched ourselves raw. There were always more mosquitoes rising up from the road like great columns of smoke, always moving ahead of us, and we dreaded them.
Alright, alright, it was not that bad. I just quoted the paragraph above from Leah Price’s account on a fateful night in Congo—from the Poisonwood Bible I was eagerly reading last night. My boss’ wife lent the thick novel when I was spending nights at the hospital, knocked out by two mosquito bites that carried dengue virus, and it almost killed me. However, I only had time to read it 7 months later, with the mosquitoes buzzing around me I could not help picking up the mosquito swatter with my right hand while my other hand held the book where my eyes laid on. Really, you don’t have to be as skilled as Maria Sharapova in swaying the racket here and there, to kill thousands of them (ok, ok, here I am exaggerating again, hundreds), without even have to look at them. The racket rattled vigorously, piercing the silence in the dead of the night, and those stinking animals were falling to the ground with roasted bodies. But boy did they ever cease to exist? No! I now regretted leaving behind my repellant in Jakarta.
Now mosquitoes have risen to the top of my least fave animal list, along with the ugly crocodiles I once saw piling up on top of each other in a crocodile farm. I felt sorry for them to have such a boring life only to end up being made bags. But I even feel sorrier for any naïve girl that had been fooled by an ugly crocodile who disguised himself in a form of a charming prince.
Mosquito vs crocodile, which one is worse? You tell me, cos they both are the same revolving to me.
Mosquitoes that had lain dormant through the long drought now hatched and rose from the forest floor in clouds so thick they filled our mouths and nostrils. I learned to draw back my lips and breathe slowly through my teeth so I wouldn’t choke on mosquitoes. When they’d covered our hands and faces with red welts they flew up our sleeves and needled our armpits. We scratched ourselves raw. There were always more mosquitoes rising up from the road like great columns of smoke, always moving ahead of us, and we dreaded them.
Alright, alright, it was not that bad. I just quoted the paragraph above from Leah Price’s account on a fateful night in Congo—from the Poisonwood Bible I was eagerly reading last night. My boss’ wife lent the thick novel when I was spending nights at the hospital, knocked out by two mosquito bites that carried dengue virus, and it almost killed me. However, I only had time to read it 7 months later, with the mosquitoes buzzing around me I could not help picking up the mosquito swatter with my right hand while my other hand held the book where my eyes laid on. Really, you don’t have to be as skilled as Maria Sharapova in swaying the racket here and there, to kill thousands of them (ok, ok, here I am exaggerating again, hundreds), without even have to look at them. The racket rattled vigorously, piercing the silence in the dead of the night, and those stinking animals were falling to the ground with roasted bodies. But boy did they ever cease to exist? No! I now regretted leaving behind my repellant in Jakarta.
Now mosquitoes have risen to the top of my least fave animal list, along with the ugly crocodiles I once saw piling up on top of each other in a crocodile farm. I felt sorry for them to have such a boring life only to end up being made bags. But I even feel sorrier for any naïve girl that had been fooled by an ugly crocodile who disguised himself in a form of a charming prince.
Mosquito vs crocodile, which one is worse? You tell me, cos they both are the same revolving to me.
HENRY’S FIRST JOURNAL PAGE
“today my aunty come to my house at 08.30 and my father change audiotape in his car she wants to follow me to tasikmalaya this night I watc the fast and the furious tokyo drift she has a television but broken my aunti picked up her softlence in her eyes no doubt if she don’t pick up her softlence her eyes cant breath but if she don’t pick up her soflence she can see well she always use a glasses on her eye
Signed, Henry.”
Ha, that’s some of my nephew’s first entry on his first diary in his 7 years of life. He begged for a company before going to bed and I asked him for one more minute to finish journaling, and five more to take off my contacts before lying down with him. He was so inspired that he decided to also write his own journal from now on, and of course he was astonished to see me pluck out a stuff out of my eye balls, which was a good opportunity for me to lecture him on how important it is not to watch TV too close and not spend the whole day with his playstation. However, I didn’t tell him that it was really reading that make your eyes go bad.
By the way, I don’t know his English grade is, but he got 2.5 (0 is the worst and 10 is the best) on Mandarin subject, despite his grandfather fluency in it. And sure thing, he still has to work on punctuation marks.
Signed, Henry.”
Ha, that’s some of my nephew’s first entry on his first diary in his 7 years of life. He begged for a company before going to bed and I asked him for one more minute to finish journaling, and five more to take off my contacts before lying down with him. He was so inspired that he decided to also write his own journal from now on, and of course he was astonished to see me pluck out a stuff out of my eye balls, which was a good opportunity for me to lecture him on how important it is not to watch TV too close and not spend the whole day with his playstation. However, I didn’t tell him that it was really reading that make your eyes go bad.
By the way, I don’t know his English grade is, but he got 2.5 (0 is the worst and 10 is the best) on Mandarin subject, despite his grandfather fluency in it. And sure thing, he still has to work on punctuation marks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
