The Kick In The Head

The other night she was lying on her bed when I nudged closer and pressed my ear to her bulging tummy. Sure enough I felt a murmur of faint heartbeat beating along with hers. And then I felt a thud. Right there. Right where I placed my ear. Did you feel it? she asked.

I did. It made my heart expanded twice the original size. I was happy. I was insanely happy. Like going to a funfair for the first time. Like being given a prize worth the entire span of your life.

And there were also excitement and fear. I was flooded with those two, but couldn't tell which was dominant. Excited for having the chance to step into a realm unbeknownst to my self. Fear, when I realized all this is actually for real. It IS happening.

I've watched her tummy grows bigger. I've made the trip with her to the gynecologist every four weeks. I've made sure she takes her vitamins and drinks her milk. I've printed almost every article about pregnancy that I can find over the net and bring them home for her. But never for once did I stop to realize how real this whole affair is. Nor have I fully digested the fact that in a matter of months something big will happen. Something that will definitely change the course of our lives.

Maybe I'm too used to taking life for granted. Letting things get past me without bothering to appreciate their true value. But that kick delivered by my unborn kid reminded me that some things do deserve a more serious consideration. See you outside, kiddo!


ps. holiday, you and your questions!! thanks

Maju Kena Mundur Kena

I bought and watched Dono, Kasino and Indro's Maju Kena Mundur Kena the other day. I don't know what came over me, I have only my impulsive nature to blame. That and my excessive sentimentality. You see, this movie, which was made sometime in mid 80s, is one of the early movies my parents took me out to see. Yeah, what were they thinking?

Anyway, Maju Kena Mundur Kena offers you exactly what you expect from Warkop DKI movies; a monumental amount of slapstick jokes and legs-and-boobs aplenty. In the first 5 minutes alone, the trio, collectively or individually, manages to bump their heads into various hard objects around 15 times, miraculously without being hospitalized for concussion.

There are also the obligatory allusions to sex and everything that goes with it. Eva Arnaz shows off her curves at every possible occasion. But by god, she has every right to do so. She was drop-dead gorgeous. It's as if she were a beacon radiating signal that persuades all men to abandon all reasons and devote their entire life gawking at her. I simply drooled at the sight of her in a slightly too revealing nightie. The missus gave me a sound smack at the head to bring me back to earth. Eva prances her way through the movie in skimpy pants and tight blouses. And I'm not complaining.

As is the case of their other movies, there is no plot to speak of. Dono, Kasino, and Indro work in the same garage and live in the same boarding house, along with Lidya Kandouw. Enter Eva Arnaz. And that's just about it. The movie is merely a collection of short sketches that almost stand individually.

None the less, these guys were good at it. I cringed at every slip or collision, yet I also found myself smiling. Years of working together had made these guys experts in creating slapstick situation. What I laughed at is not the bumps, but the sheer improbability of it happening in real life. Although their later works are crap, their earlier were nothing less than classics. I especially like the one where they worked in a hotel and the one where they built a soft-drink vending robot (the funniest of them all).

All in all, it was a decent form of entertainment, especially when you manage to switch off your brain as you push 'Play'. Smoking pot while watching is highly recommended. I'd rather watch this than Indonesian sinetrons any day.

Reminiscing Saur Sepuh

How many of your remember Saur Sepuh? Yep. It was a phenomenal radio series in mid 80s I think. In Cilacap the show was aired at 2.30 pm daily and it would took a team of horses to drag me away from the radio.

Basically the story revolved around the adventures of Brama Kumbara, a king who was powerful and wise, a rare combination these days, from a small but respected kingdom of Madangkara. The king had this inclination to journey across his kingdom disguised as commoners, sometimes for months, which was rather strange, now that I think about it, bearing in mind that he had a kingdom to run.

Anyway, he was also a kick-ass warrior with great fighting skill and vast array of magical powers. His most notable power, if I remember correctly, was Ajian Serat Jiwa Tingkat 10, literally meaning the 10th level of Fiber of the Soul strike. The strike, if applied correctly, would reduce anyone foolish enough to be his enemy into a pile of ashes. Pretty handy if you run a crematorium business, eh? His other magical power was Bayu Bajra by which he could summon hurricanes to wreak havoc at the vicinity of his choice. Other skills included the standard requirements of the era’s warriors; fast running, long distance strike, and weight reduction to a point where you could stand on the smallest branch of any tree or effortlessly or leap a few stories high.

While Brama liked to fight bare-handed, his kid-sister Mantili preferred to do her ‘hostile negotiation’ by swords. In the old days she was known as Pedang Setan, the Ghoul Sword, because her sword, when unsheathed, would emit rolling fog of hellishly foul smelling substance. Apparently this was what distracted her enemies. While the poor slobs were busy covering their noses, Mantili conveniently slashed their necks. One time she was challenged by another swordmaster named Pedang Perak, the Silver Sword. The duel took several episodes to finish with Mantili coming on top and claimed ownership of the deceased’s sword. Apparently the silver sword reflected all sorts of light which in turn blinded the wielder’s foes. So from then on, enemy of the good not only had to contend with foul smell but also blinding lights.

Mantili, despite being a protagonist, was described as short-fused and quick to unseath both swords. Especially when she encountered Lasmini, the Swordmistress of Mount Lawu. I can’t quite recall what Lasmini’s special ability is, martially speaking, but she was extremely beautiful and she knew how to use her beauty to get what she wanted. So I guess it is safe to say that her most dangerous weapon was her sexuality, the deadliest weapon in every female’s arsenal. The voluptuous swordmistress either slept with her enemies or enchanted them with her beauty before hacking their heads off. Much to Mantili’s irritation, Lasmini had a major crush on Brama ever since our hero saved her from a pack of sex-crazed bad guys.

I don’t remember much about the antagonists because there were so many of them but there was this guy who mastered Ajian Serat Jiwa before Brama did and beat the shit out of the Madangkara king. Brama would have been dead had it not for the intervention of a giant eagle, much like Gwaihir in Lord of the Rings trilogy, who carried his dying body away. Miraculously, the king survived and years later, after mastering Ajian Serat Jiwa, got himself a rematch and exacted his revenge.

Anyway, for 30 minutes Sunday to Saturday,as was the case of millions devoted to this series, I was invited to roam in this land of fantasy. Although I could only heard the shouts and screams, I could vividly pictured how the mighty warriors taunted each other and slug it out. How the trees were uprooted and men scattered in the howling hurricane when Brama unleashed Bayu Bajra. The clanging of metals would indicate swordfight and my mind instantly drew a picture of Mantili leaping in swirling fog and silvery lights. How sparks flew from the clashing sword.

Man, they don’t make this kind of thing anymore.

The Road Not Taken

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like should I choose to remain a bachelor. Unburdened by marital responsibilities, I would certainly be able to devote my life in pursuit of mundane pleasures, which to my unimaginative and shallow mind would definitely include long hours of PC or console gaming, movie watching, and getting peacefully drunk.

It’s rather disheartening to find out that my interests in life are limited to the meaningless and egocentrical activities I have mentioned above. I have always imagined that a normal human being should always want to help others and better himself in one way or another in the process. You know, like taking master degree, joining a yoga class, volunteering for humanitarian missions, teaching homeless kids, feeding birds, or extracting wisdom from religious teachings. That the sole purpose of life to seek the meaning of life itself. It’s either getting the answer or going insane trying. Well, apparently not MY life.

My immediate attempt at salvation would be dipping really deep into my saving and getting my self a state-of-the-art gamer PC and PS2 console, a respectable 5.1 subwoofer system, and a small fridge.

I would go to Glodok every Friday afternoon to buy enough pirated DVDs to last for the weekend and sporadic occasions on weekdays. In between movies, I could always play Winning Eleven at the console or Diablo, Pharaoh, and Championship Manager at the PC. Or when I get tired of them all, I would simply get my self intoxicated and listen to the likes of Sting or U2. “And you give yourself away…and you give yourself away…I can't live, with or without you.”

I would live for the day. I would have no care for tomorrow. I would enjoy the moment.

Although my social life would be restricted to the people I meet at the office, all in all I think I would have a full life. Female companionship could be virtually obtained over the internet, courtesy of Yahoo Messenger and Friendster. And should ‘that’ need arise, I could always frequent those shady establishments at Mangga Besar my friends always rave about. However, due to the fact that it would cause a considerable dent to my meager budget, the visit should be restricted to once a month.

Actually here is where my seemingly perfect plan shows its major flaw. Despite all the above, I knew that my life would be deprived of human closeness. Devoid of unartificial warm feeling of mutual relationship. I would be alien to shared laughter and genuine intimacy. I know this because I’ve been there. I’ve been in Saturday mornings when I looked disdainfully at my stack of DVDs I purchased the previous day and wished I had bought a train ticket to Semarang instead. I remember calling my then fiancee and for 10 minutes I basked in the glimmer of past memories and future meetings. Yes, it’s rather sickeningly melancholic, but it’s true.

That is why I took the road I have travelled by. And I’m telling this without a sigh.


Note: I suppose you know that a certain Mr. Frost once wrote a wonderful poem whose title is featured in this post. You do? Good.

The Twin Red Line

A long, long time ago, a cybermate (yes, that’s you, Holiday), wrote something about the stages you have got to go through before you can actually love a living, breathing human being of the opposite sex.

She wrote that first you have to start with inanimate things, like a stone for example. The underlying reason being no matter how badly you screw up, you can’t hurt a stone. You may lose it or break it, but you just can’t hurt it. Easy.

Upon being able of loving lifeless object, you should move on to living but not moving objects, like trees. I’ve cultivated a patch of cassavas, back when I was still in Jogja. Not easy. I learnt that my affection for the cassava patch were short-lived as soon as I realized that I had to constantly weed them and water them, and gave them that evil-smelling goat waste.

The next stage concerns with loving a living, moving but unthinking object. Pets, for example. Now, here is where the real problem begins. My efforts to have a pet always ended up in the horrible demise of the poor animal. My cat banged his head to the tire of a moving car. My bird became a stray cat’s lunch. And my fish always went belly-up in the aquarium. Don’t know why.

What worries me is that my cybermate made it very clear that unless you succeed in loving and caring for the objects mentioned above, you are simply not ready for loving a living human being. Now it seems that in just a matter of months, I have made a giant leap from loving stones straight to loving a member of human race. First, I pledged loyalty and life-long dedication to a woman that have been the object of my affection for as long as I can remember. And then, one morning this woman emerged from the bathroom showing me a small stick. There were two red lines on it, instead of one.

Dear God, or whatever divine being reigning up there, I hope you know what you’re doing…

Perhaps Some Other Aeons

Right. It is the title of a song performed by the Cocteau Twins, which at first I mistook for that old French diver only to realize that his name was Costeau. And that he was dead, too. The reason why I’m writing this somewhat amateurish review is that a fellow blogger, whose blog I read religiously 5 days a week, made references to it several times in her posts, so I decided to see what the fuss is all about. Now I’m obliged to remind you that I have neither musical background nor adequate knowledge about the band. So what makes me think I qualified to write a review? God knows...

Knowing her, I thought Cocteau Twins was some sort of angry girl band like the Bikini Kills. You know, an all-girl band who urges female species around the world to vent their anger by kicking us men squarely in the nuts. Well, maybe they do. I could not catch the lyrics much except the repeated ‘perhaps-some-other-aeons’. I wonder what that means. I wonder if it’s an answer to a question. You know, questions like::

Would you like a cup of coffee? Perhaps some other aeons.
Would you like a razor to go with that wrist? Perhaps some other aeons.
Would you like to watch another Ben Stiller movie? Perhaps some other aeons. Moreover, somebody should shoot that guy.

Lyrics aside, I think the closest words to describe their music is ‘out-of-worldly’. The echoing melodies and the incessant, rhythmic beating of the drums give you the feeling that you are floating up there in the sea of stars. I cannot help but catch some strong mystical nuances, like when you hear the chanting of Indian shaman or Buddhist monks. I think the best way to enjoy this song is by lying on your back in a dark, secluded place.
Like when you listen to that Irish chick, Enya, you can imagine the serene lakes, tranquil woods and calm sea. This song is equally engaging but in a darker, grimmer kind a way.

In conclusion, this song is no Didi Kempot (more feminists should listen to this guy’s whining about being dumped by women all over the country) but I think I might like it. Thank you, Marianne.

PS: If you find this review to be chronically one-sided or inacurate, you may complain all you want. Just don’t kick me in the nuts.

The Kota-Rangkasbitung Train

I have just seen the bottom of Indonesian train barrel. It was manifested in the form of economy-class Jakarta Kota-Rangkasbitung diesel train.

The cars had definitely seen better days and now it looked like something the cat dragged in. If you have a train set at home, soak it in a gutter for a night, roll it over in dust, and bang it several times to the wall and you might come close to understanding what I’m talking about. Or being clubbed to death by your little nephew for ruining his train set, for that matter.

The inside of the train car gave you the feeling that the interior design consultant was a group of angry and rebellious teenagers armed with baseball bats and spray paints. There used to be seats in there, but only the rusty wire frames were left, giving you a junkyard look. Whatever was left of the cushions were piled up here and there in the hope that they would pass for seats. I could not tell the original color of the floor since it was comprehensively covered by dirt, candy wrappings, plastic bags, peels of any fruit known to man, banana leaves and other things I could only guess. The walls were decorated with contemporary writings in the form of love pledges by several different people in at least four languages, revolutionary slogans, advertising statements (one promoting a Bantenese penis enlargement method), narcissistic statements, and on that could only be categorized as cry of desperation (a hilarious ‘Eyang, cucumu terluka..’—‘Grandpa, your grandson is hurt..’, trying to imagine what prompted the author to write this particular literary gem was mentally disturbing). And the smell. Man! It was as if the entire population of West Jakarta had peed in it. That and some other foul smells that my sensory organ just refused to contemplate.

Yet, it was always packed with passengers. And hawkers. Anything you need, man, you can find it here. Peanuts, fruits of all season, spare automobile tires, vast array of clothing, and some weird looking self-massage device that I mistook for, uhm, a dildo. Not that I’m interested in dildos. I’m completely secured with my sexuality. And come on, why would I need dildos anyway? Anyways, now that we’ve established the fact that I don’t need dildos, these hawkers tirelessly marketed their goodies even though the aisle was jam-packed by passengers. I noticed an orange vendor that offered 15 oranges for five thousand rupiahs in Stasiun Kota, the number went up to 20 in Stasiun Tanah Abang, 25 by the time the train reached Kebayoran Lama, and finally 30 at Stasiun Pondok Ranji, where I got off. Goddamn! I couldn’t imagine how much oranges you could get for five thousand rupiahs when you buy them at Rangkasbitung.

Getting off the train required Herculean effort. There were a lot of pushing and shoving, and groping, yes somebody actually chop a feel at my rear end. It was more of criminal rather than sexual, I guess. Whoever did it must have been trying to feel my back pocket for wallet. And he’s not very good at it. Not that I am in the habit of having my arse gropped…

Kilkelly

I dedicate this song to those who live far away from home.

Kilkelly
(Peter Jones)

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 60, my dear and loving son John
Your good friend the schoolmaster Pat McNamara's so good
As to write these words down.
Your brothers have all gone to find work in England,
The house is so empty and sad
The crop of potatoes is sorely infected,
A third to a half of them bad.
And your sister Brigid and Patrick O'Donnell
Are going to be married in June.
Your mother says not to work on the railroad
And be sure to come on home soon.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 70, dear and loving son John
Hello to your Mrs and to your 4 children,
May they grow healthy and strong.
Michael has got in a wee bit of trouble,
I guess that he never will learn.
Because of the dampness there's no turf to speak of
And now we have nothing to burn.
And Brigid is happy, you named a child for her
And now she's got six of her own.
You say you found work, but you don't say
What kind or when you will be coming home.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 80, dear Michael and John, my sons
I'm sorry to give you the very sad news
That your dear old mother has gone.
We buried her down at the church in Kilkelly,
Your brothers and Brigid were there.
You don't have to worry, she died very quickly,
Remember her in your prayers.
And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning,
With money he's sure to buy land
For the crop has been poor and the people
Are selling at any price that they can.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 90, my dear and loving son John
I guess that I must be close on to eighty,
It's thirty years since you're gone.
Because of all of the money you send me,
I'm still living out on my own.
Michael has built himself a fine house
And Brigid's daughters have grown.
Thank you for sending your family picture,
They're lovely young women and men.
You say that you might even come for a visit,
What joy to see you again.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 92, my dear brother John
I'm sorry that I didn't write sooner to tell you that father passed on.
He was living with Brigid, she says he was cheerful
And healthy right down to the end.
Ah, you should have seen him play with
The grandchildren of Pat McNamara, your friend.
And we buried him alongside of mother,
Down at the Kilkelly churchyard.
He was a strong and a feisty old man,
Considering his life was so hard.
And it's funny the way he kept talking about you,
He called for you in the end.
Oh, why don't you think about coming to visit,
We'd all love to see you again.

Note: 130 years after his great grandfather left the small village of Kilkelly in County Mayo, Peter Jones found a bundle of letters sent to him by his father in Ireland. The letters tell of family news, births, death, sales of land and bad harvests. They remind the son, that he is loved, missed and remembered by his family in Ireland. The final letter informs him that his father, whom he has not seen for 30 years, has died, the last link with home is broken. Peter Jones used these letters to make this song.
The "trouble" in verse two is probably the Fenian rising of 1867.

Sugeng Kenthongan

My first encounter with Sugeng Kenthongan dated back when I was still in elementary school and we were still living at Jalan Tengiri house near Teluk Penyu. Like a clock work, day after day he would march the streets of Cilacap, including the one in front of our house, singing while playing his bamboo kenthongan. Hence the name.

In the ancient pre-cellphone, pre-telephone, pre-loudspeaker, and pre-e-mail days, kenthongan was largely used as a mean of communication. It is made from hollowed log and hung in front of every neighborhood watchpost. When I was a kid, every house had the hand-held bamboo version. Beat the shit out that thing with a stick and neighbors, alarmed by its rapid thumping, would gather in no time asking, what happened? what happened?.

It was one of those hand-held version that Sugeng beat rhythmically to accompany whatever it was that he was singing, if you could call it that. Children jeered at him and scurried behind him daring each other to walk the closest to him. The boldest went as far as tugging at his shirt. Adults, having grown accustomed to his patrolling the streets, took no heed. But Sugeng marched along unperturbed. Rain or shine. Day and night. Day in day out.

If there was a parade in town, you could bet your last dime that Sugeng would be there. Clad in his rag shirt and shorts he strode along the colorful uniforms of drumband squads, maneuvering deftly among the flagbearers until he was at the front. Up there with the pretty majorettes with their skimpy skirts, white stocking, knee high boots, make-up that were much too heavy for their age, and silver sticks that they effortlessly threw to the air in circular motions. His kenthongan thumping and tin can singing vainly competed with the drumming of drums and blaring trumpets. Yet he walked with some sort of quiet pride, like it was HIS parade and others merely marched behind him.

His origin had become one of the greatest questions of my childhood. I was never concerned about where babies were from. But where was Sugeng from? Whatever happened to him? Where did he live? Did he have parents? Did he ever stop to eat or pee or poop? He always turned up with different clothes every day so I guess he must have had a home. But where? Rumor had it that he went bananas because he was rejected by the army but nobody knew what really happened.

Many, many years later I was running on an errand downtown with Secondborn when I saw him crouching on the sidewalk, his back against the wall of a abandoned building. So he did stop to rest. The questions must have been bugging Secondborn as well because he nudged at me and we walked up to him. Secondborn offered him a cigarette which he accepted gratefully. After the second puff we started asking the questions in native Banyumasan. He never gave satisfactory answer. He told us that he lived ‘just over there’. He never went to any schooling and was very unclear about the whereabouts of his parents.

On our way home Secondborn pointed out that Sugeng was indeed the luckiest bastard in Cilacap. Look at him, he said, he did nothing but sing and march all day, a thing that he apparently loved. He’s well fed and never had to worry about flunking a class, getting a job or getting trampled upon by girls. Classes, jobs and maybe even girls simply did not exist in his world. He lived in a world where he created his own reality. And because people didn’t understand his reality and thus dubbed him a looney, he could do whatever he wanted. No hush, no fuss. People would just shrug and walk away. Very convenient.

The reason I’m writing this is that a couple of weeks ago during my trip home, I saw him again. His thin figure among the traffics. The rhythmic beating of his kenthongan and the rough, high-pitched singing, which was a Banyumasan nursery song now that I listened closely. The casual but proud march. The unconcerned way that he walked. The luckiest bastard in Cilacap.

Liburan di Meja Kerja

Belok kiri di pertigaan Bantulan dan melajulah saya di jalan Godean. Terasa semilir angin yang membawa wangi merang dari tempat pembakaran batu bata yang bertebaran di kiri-kanan jalan. Motor saya terus melaju, sesekali mendahului omprengan tua yang tertatih-tatih kelebihan muatan atau petani yang bersepeda sambil membawa cangkul di boncengannya.

Mata saya berpesta dengan sawah-sawah, saluran irigasi dan pohon akasia yang berderet sepanjang jalan. Warung-warung dari bambu yang menjual mie ayam dan jajanan ala kadarnya. Saking ndesonya, saya merasa mie ayam dengan tomato ketchup produksi perusahaan antah berantah yang disajikan di warung-warung tengah sawah itu lebih nikmat dari spaghetti bolognaise Pizza Hut.

Dan sampailah saya di perempatan pasar Godean. Jalan ke kiri membawa saya ke Argomulyo, ke kanan ke Mlati, dan jika lurus terus ke Kulonprogo, yang menjadi tujuan saya. Lampu merah memaksa saya berhenti di antara bis tiga per empat jurusan Jogja-Dekso dan seorang bapak tua yang mengendarai sepeda lengkap dengan keranjang di kiri-kanannya. Sore itu pelataran pasar penuh dengan penjual keripik belut dan keripik bayam, kudapan nasional Republik Godean. Ada yang ditempatkan di dalam etalase kaca sederhana, tetapi sebagian besar ditumpuk menggunung di tampah bambu. Seorang ibu berkacamata hitam turun dari Kijang barunya mulai bernegosiasi dengan sang bakul. Saya tidak tahu apakah negosiasi itu berujung kepada kesepakatan jual-beli karena lampu keburu hijau dan bunyi klakson motor dari belakang mengingatkan saya untuk meneruskan perjalanan.

Bulak demi bulak saya lewati. Bagi yang belum tahu, bulak adalah istilah orang Jawa untuk selajur jalan panjang yang di kiri-kanannya hanya terdapat persawahan atau tegalan, zonder pemukiman. Adalah merupakan suatu kemalangan kecil bagi setiap pengendara yang pecah ban, kehabisan bensin atau mogok di tengah bulak di malam hari karena biasanya mereka harus menuntun motor cukup jauh untuk mendapatkan pertolongan. Kemalangan besar adalah jika dalam keadaan sedemikian mereka masih harus bertemu seorang wanita bergaun putih dan berambut panjang yang kakinya tidak menjejak tanah.

Jalan aspal mulus mulai menurun dan saya pun tahu kalau sebentar lagi saya akan menyeberangi Kali Progo. Jembatannya lebar dan agak panjang dengan tonggak-tonggak sepinggang yang dicat kuning. Karena ini adalah musim kemarau, sungai Progo hanya terisi separuhnya. Separuh yang lain menunjukkan permukaan yang penuh batu kali yang kemudian diangkut oleh truk-truk tanggung untuk dijual ke Jogja atau Muntilan. Laju motor yang dibantu oleh gravitasi bumi membuat saya dalam waktu sekejap berpindah dari wilayah Kabupaten Sleman ke Kabupaten Kulonprogo. Welcome to West Progue.

Setelah melewati terminal Kenteng yang sepi karena pada saat pembangunannya tidak memperhitungkan bahwa penumpang bisa lebih suka menunggu di perempatan daripada harus berjalan kaki seratusan meter ke terminal, tibalah saya di perempatan Kenteng. Ke kiri ke Wates sedangkan ke kanan Muntilan. Lurus, yang menjadi tujuan saya, adalah ke perbukitan Menoreh.

Seusai menyeberang perempatan, saya menjumpai pasar Kenteng yang sudah sepi pengunjung. Mungkin hari itu bukan hari pasaran atau memang karena sudah menjelang sore saya tak tahu persis. Yang ada hanya pedagang atau entah siapa yang tiduran atau sekadar bersandar melepas lelah di los-los pasar yang kosong. Pedagang cendol di pintu masuk pasar duduk mencangkung di kursi bambu dan merokok bersama, lagi-lagi, tukang mie ayam. Terkadang saya berpikiran bahwa jika ada kontes pemilihan makanan nasional, maka saya dengan sepenuh hati akan mengusulkan mie ayam karena di republik ini kemanapun kita melayangkan pandangan di situ ada tukang mie ayam.

Perhatikan semangkuk mie ayam. Mari kita pisahkan elemen-elemen yang membuatnya menjadi mie ayam. Pertama adalah mie yang terbuat dari gandum. Kedua adalah ayam cincang. Dan ketiga, bumbu yang terdiri dari campuran rempah-rempah dan minyak. Ketiga hal tersebut adalah elemen dasar mie ayam yang seragam di mana-mana, mulai dari mie ayam pasar Kenteng sampai mie Gajah Mada. Elemen lain seperti kaldu, sawi hijau, sambal botol, kecap, acar, dan kerupuk hanyalah bersifat pilihan. Satu-satunya kelainan, jika bisa dikatakan demikian, adalah sebuah warung di daerah Wonosari, Gunung Kidul, yang menyajikan paha ayam utuh sebagai pengganti ayam cincang. Itupun terpampang jelas di spanduk yang mewartakan menu warung itu; ‘Mie Paha’, bukan ‘Mie Ayam’.

Keseragaman inilah yang semakin menguatkan keyakinan saya bahwa mie ayam adalah makanan yang lebih nasional jika dibandingkan dengan, soto. Soto memang ada di mana-mana, tetapi variannya terlalu banyak. Soto Lamongan yang berkuah santan misalnya jauh berbeda dengan soto Jogja yang bening dan nyaris tanpa rasa. Belum lagi soto Padang yang dagingya digoreng kering, soto Banjar yang dilengkapi perkedel, soto Madura yang menyertakan sebutir telur rebus utuh, dan soto Banyumas (wilayah yang mencakup Sokaraja, Purwokerto, Purbalingga, dan tanah air saya, Cilacap) yang, menurut saya, menghidangkan surga di setiap mangkuknya. Mohon maaf jika saya menyimpang terlalu jauh dari tema utama tulisan saya ini.

Kenteng dengan segala kesepiannya lewatlah sudah dan di depan mata saya perbukitan Menoreh berjajar dengan anggunnya. Daerah perbukitan yang menjadi setting serial silat legendaris Api di Bukit Menoreh yang menurut bapak saya, sebagai salah satu pecandu berat serial tersebut, ceritanya tidak selesai karena sang pengarangnya, SH Mintaredja, keburu meninggal tanpa meninggalkan kerangka cerita selanjutnya.

Setelah melewati tanjakan-tanjakan pendek dan menengah dan mengambil ancang-ancang yang cukup jauh, motor bebek saya meluncur untuk menaklukan tanjakan yang paling menantang. Tanjakan itu sebenarnya tidak curam; hanya panjang dan tanpa bonus jalan datar. Belum sepertiga tanjakan, tenaga motor saya yang memang ala kadarnya itu sudah terkuras habis. Bendera putih dikibarkan dan saya pasrah menempuh sisa tanjakan dengan persneling 1, sedikit lebih cepat dari orang jalan kaki. Pada saat seperti ini saya selalu teringat pepatah orang Jawa “alon-alon waton kelakon, gremat-gremet asale slamet”. Toh puncak bukit itu tak akan kemana.

Hampir sunyi. Hanya lamat-lamat suara loudspeaker surau yang menyetel kaset pengajian entah dimana. Jogja terasa jauh. Sejauh mata saya memandang hanya pepohonan yang terlihat, baik yang masih berdaun ataupun yang sudah meranggas. Saya sempat menghitung paling tidak ada empat pohon durian nun jauh di bawah sana. Pohon itu paling gampang dikenali karena daunnya berwarna hijau keperakan. Petak-petak sawah seperti papan catur yang tidak beraturan, antara kuning padi dan merah tanah sisa panen. Bau rumput kering dan bau-bauan kemarau lainnya menguap dari tanah di sekitar saya, di puncak bukit yang saya tidak tahu namanya. Sanctuary saya.

Samar-samar saya mendengar suara orang memanggil nama saya. Bagaimana mungkin? Lambat laun makin jelas. Ko! Eko! Konsep bahan rapat lu ditunggu Kabag lu tuh! Saya membuka mata dan melihat jam. Hm. Waktu makan siang sudah usai 5 menit yang lalu. Kembali ke dunia nyata. Kembali ke Jakarta.

More on Her and Football

“That’s simply unfair, isn’t it?”
We were snuggling in front of the TV watching an Indonesian League football match, something, I imagine, most newlyweds do on weekends when they have nothing to do, no place to go, or simply exhausted after a marathon of ‘playing bump-bump’. Not that they all watch Indonesian League matches. There were also gossip shows who questions the morals of our celebrities which leads to us questioning ours because we enjoy the gossips so much, reality shows where renegade lovers get caught knee deep in debauchery, and oh, yes, the sinetrons that are watchable only when you are stone-drunk.

“What is unfair, hon?”
Yes, I have taken to ‘honey’ her. Much to her amusement and my brothers’ prolonged hysterical laughter when they accidentally found out. Anyway, without taking her eyes off the match, ‘honey’ continued, “Well, the goalkeeper clearly went for the ball but the referee think of it as a foul.”

I had talked her into watching this match and, knowing the question-everything person that she is, had seen this coming, so I said,” Yes. But the problem is he didn’t get the ball, instead he floored the enemy striker, which is why the referee blew the whistle. Anyway, he’s lucky he’s still at the pitch. The goalkeeper was the last man, he should have been sent off.”

“That’s harsh.”
“Harsh?”
“He didn’t mean to tackle the striker.”
“Of course he didn’t mean to. Yet he did. Hence the foul.”

She turned around to face me with a combative look on her face.
“It is not in his intention to tackle that striker. He simply went for the ball. One should not be punished for what one never intended to do.”
“Look, honey, it’s not about the intention, it’s about what happened. For instance, when a railway crossing attendant fails to lower the bar in time thus the train hit an unsuspecting car, there’s a fat chance he will be punished. Of course he never intends anyone to get hurt, yet it happens, and consequently he will have to pay for it.”
“Stay with the picture, we’re talking about football.”
“I was giving you an analogy. Didn’t you get the point?”
“I don’t see any.”
“Well, the point is if you made a mistake, regardless of your intention, you get screwed.”
“But it’s not fair.”
“How is it not fair?”
“It’s just not”

Still with a proud face, she turned back to the match.
“What happened now?”, she asked.
“That player strayed into an off-side position.”
“What’s an off-side position?”
Oh, here we go again…

The Metaphors of Meggy Z

After a few hours, I came to realize that the driver of Cilacap-Semarang bus I was in was a hardcore fan of Meggy Z, one of the prominent Indonesian male dangdut singers. Although I tried hard to sink my mind into the novel Return of the King that I brought along, I had to admit that Middle-Earth and dangdut were not made for each other. Before long I found myself closing the book and looking at the passing landscape instead, nodding my head in compliance to the beat. My mind were elsewhere but subliminally the lyrics of Mr. Z’s songs slowly seeped in.

It was then when I realized how the man employed mind-bending, unheard of metaphors in his songs. It’s something that singled him out from other dangdut singers although the main theme of the songs were identical, i.e. failure at love and life department, something that curiously appealed to most people. Here’s one of them:

Kalau hanya untuk mengejar laki-laki lain
Buat apa sih benang biru kau sulam menjadi kelambu?

If you only mean to go for other men,
Why did you weave blue thread into mosqouito net?

Get a load of that! He is the only man I know who managed, in a really unconventional manner, to somehow link unrequited love to mosqouito net. I racked my brain for some time trying to make a logical connection between those two , seemingly unrelated, things. Now, if you think that’s weird, wait till you hear this:

Sementara kasih sayang yang kuberikan
Engkau anggap tuk membayar hutang cinta yang ku pinjam
Kalau belum lunas mengapa tak menagih lagi?

Meanwhile the love I gave to you
Is considered as payment for my love-debt to you
If it has not been paid in full, why didn’t you ask for more?

The guy is phenomenal, isn’t he? What kind of man could come up with the concept that love could be considered as debt? How could a guy owe love? Man! It was just beyond the capacity of my simple mind. Hats off to you, Mr. Z!

Of Her and Football

At some point during our pre-bedtime pillow talk the missus asked me whether football matches were more interesting in comparison to herself. It was obvious that I had to answer that she was by a mile more interesting than any football match in the history of mankind, however I also felt compelled to defend my most beloved sport so I tried to buy some time by inquiring why she entertained such ghastly notion in her head.

After taking a deep breath and exhaled it loudly in exasperation, which was a clear sign of incoming feud, she proceed with a narration of a certain event that happened earlier in the evening. She described how I went home looking tired so after shower and dinner I went straight to bed. Since it was only shortly after 8, she demanded to have a decent conversation which, from her point of view, I failed to supply, being so drowsy. Yet, she continued, I managed to wake up and concentrate fully on a football match sometime at 9. That, she concluded, was why she entertained such a ghastly notion in her head.

My defense began by pointing out the football and herself were two things so irrelevant to be put on the comparison scale that the mere effort to compare them would cause fallacy in logical thinking. The comparison itself was so prone to bias and subjectivism that to provide unbiased and objective answer would be virtually as impossible as asking a vampire to be a vegetarian. Plus I had not done enough research to support the finding of something remotely resembling a definitive answer. Regardless of all the impossibilities, it was also rather unfair to compare one’s wife, a soulmate, a companion for life, to a sport so harsh yet curiously joyful to watch. As I paused before launching more of this barrage of bullcrap, I heard the sound of regular breathing. My wife, my soulmate and companion for life, had fallen asleep.

This morning when I woke up, I heard her humming as she prepared my breakfast. She had had her revenge. Things were back to normal.

I Lost My Bachelor Degree; She Got Her Master

Now that I'm married, I have to get used to the idea of living with a girl. Actually it's kinda nice that she transformed my formerly barbarian cave into something resembling a decent human dwelling. And I find it a lot easier to find my clothes because the few I own are neatly stored in the wardrobe, ironed and perfumed. And one thing that I consider nothing less than a miraculous feat: she managed to remove that horrid smell from the bathroom. Plus there's always home-cooked breakfast and a nice cup of coffee before I set out to work.

However, there are several ground rules that I have to comply. Everytime I try to challenge these rules she always threaten with something involving a headache, and my rebellion is promptly subdued. Here are some of them:

Kitchen is her absolute territory. I must never contest her authority in this area, eventhough I consider myself as a decent cook. Criticism is not encouraged. Everything she cooks, or worse,experiments with, I must risk my life consuming.

Movies with kids, babies and cats are encouraged. Those with guns, military personnels, bloodbaths, or dark environment are frowned upon. Porns are out of the question.

Smoking is forbidden in the livingroom, hallway, kitchen, bathroom and especially bedroom. The only safe place to smoke is actually out of the house. And instead of a full stick, I can only smoke half a cigarette. It's for your own sake, she said.

Any beverage containing alcohol is not allowed.

Although we are the only persons in the house, she refuse to open the bathroom door when she's taking a bath. Apparently voyeurism is not her cup of tea.

Oh well, there is always a price to pay.

My Average Days

My work involves writing blahs like these:

In relation with state finance management reform as warranted by Presidential Decree 36/2004, the organizational structure of Ministry of Finance underwent some changes at echelon I tier as stipulated in the Decree of Ministry of Finance Number 302/KMK.01/2004 on Organization and Work Structure of Ministry of Finance. Those changes were conducted in a reorganization within the Ministry of Finance that reflects the separation of several key functions of the Ministry, namely fiscal policy, budget planning, and budget execution. As an echelon I unit of the Ministry, Directorate General of Budget and Fiscal Balance harbors the function of budget planning.

Reform in the area of state finance management conducted to enhance efficiency and effectiveness is manifested in the stipulation of Law 17/2003 on State Finance, Law 1/2004 on State Treasury, and Law 15/2004 on State Finance Responsibility and Assessment. Reform in that particular area includes the increase of management in the stages of budgeting, execution, assesment and reporting of state finance.

To improve budgeting process several policies, one of which is the Performance Based Budgeting, has been and will be applied. Performance based budgeting requires performance control criteria, evaluation, and unified budget system to ensure the absence of duplications in the formulation of ministry/agency workplan and budget. The aforementioned formulation also covers the need for both performance based budgeting and performance accountability measuring.

In line with efforts to thoroughly implement performance based budgeting the formerly used budget classification needs to be changed so as to be in accordance with internationally accepted classification. The changes in the classification of government transactions are made to simplify the implementation of performance based budget, provide a more objective and proportional portrayal of government activities, maintain consistency with the standards of public accounting, and simplify the presentation and increase the credibility of government finance statistic. It is hoped that the implementation of performance based budgeting will negate budget duplication, stacking, and deviation.

Pretty handy for chronic insomnia, eh? :) :) :)

Sir Eko

It was part of my job to teach young kids. Those hollering pagans. I was barely out of the teacher's room when they swarmed towards me yelling, Mister Eko! Mister Eko!

With their parents and my fellow teachers lurking in the premise, I was deeply embarrassed for not having taught them the proper way of addressing people, so I gave them a crash course on the spot. Look kids, use 'mister' with my last name, okay? That's Mister Widyasmoro. Or if you just want to call me, you can use 'Sir'. Got it? Now go to your class I'll be there shortly.

When they spotted me the next day, they rushed towards me like vultures at dinnertime. But this time they yelled, Sir Eko! Sir Eko!

Rainbow Over Bekasi

The day was edging itself to dusk as I made my way along what was left of pedestrian walk after a long day's work and cramped economy class commuter trainride. The rain that must have fallen a while ago left a light drizzle and the street on my right was filled to its square inch with almost every moving vehicles known to man. The growling of 8-wheeled truck engines competed with blaring horns of cars, motorcycles, and the shouting of frustrated becak drivers. On top of all that, the railway crossing behind me sounded its alarming siren. Incoming train.

It was then when I saw it. A perfect blend of colors stretched in gigantic arc that loomed high over the roofs and buldings. Breathtakingly beautiful.

Amidst all the hustle bustle it offered a short moment of serenity. Grace. Grandeur. And a shitload of beauty. I don't know what to make of it but as it slowly faded in the crimson sky, I gladly accepted its kindly offer and found myself smiling.

The Driving Lesson

Except in PC games I never drove a car in my entire life. Hence, my brothers considered it as a brotherly responsibility to teach me to drive. Perhaps I should tell you that I’m a firstborn. Secondborn drove our 1984 Peugeot 505 from Jogja to Cilacap in 3 hours flat. Regular busride takes 5 hours. Thirdborn made it in 2,5 hours due to the absence of parents on board.

So after a crash-course on how to shift the gears and they were convinced that i could tell the difference between the clutch, accelerator and brake pedals, they took me out for a spin.

Oh, man..after ten minutes I swore to my self that i would earn enough money to hire a chauffeur. First of all, you got to keep the right balance when you step on the accelerator and release the clutch. Release the clutch too slow and the engine will roar although the car wouldn't budge an inch. Too fast and and the car will 'jump' and the engine died. And then there’s the array switches and buttons for turning the head lights, long and short, emergency lights, left-and-right turn signals, windshield spray and wiper, horns and some strange looking handle that turned out to be the hand brake.

After a while, I got the hang of it and the car started to move. Off we went. We rolled into the streets of Cilacap. My brothers’ instructions became the voices in my head. Shift to first gear. Step on the accelerator. Ease the clutch. Easy, easy. Now the second gear. Easy. That’s it. Keep it steady. That’s a lamp post. You don’t want to hit it. Hitting a lamp post is bad. And that’s a ditch. A ditch is bad. You don’t want to end up in a ditch. You want to stay on the road. Easy, now. Turn left. Switch on the sign. Left. Left. I said left, didn’t I? Why did you give the turn right signal? We don’t want to get killed. Getting killed is bad….

I was sincerely grateful that the city officials has had enough consideration to build wide and smooth streets for inexperienced drivers like me..and it's quiet too. Not much traffic. That's what my brothers thought. My point of view was unfortunately rather different. I saw every oncoming cars or any other vehicles, parked or moving, as possible threats of gruesome and messy car-crash, although the margin was wide enough to land a jumbo jet in. My brothers assured me that unless the other drivers were suicidal, they wanted to avoid car-crash as much i did.

A while later, I was cruising the streets along Cilacap's coastline..Feel the breeze on my hair..the sweet scent of saltwater and the glorious sun..until one of my brothers pointed out that our grandma could drive faster than I did. Feeling deeply offended, I stepped on the accelerator in earnest...the marvellous French muscle roared..everything blurs past me..it was almost surreal...now that's better, my wicked brother said, a bit more and you'll break 50 km an hour...

Things She Asked

You know, women have this knack of asking flat out weird question at the most inapropriate times. Okay, I don't want to go around generalizing things so I'll rephrase my previous sentence.

You know, my girlfriend has this knack of asking flat out weird question at the most inapropriate times. There. Now stop the gender-harrassment complains...

Last Friday, I was halfway through my regular breakfast diet i.e.,bubur ayam, which was pretty good by the way, when my lovely girlfriend sent me a short message: do you believe in everlasting love?

I was composing the answer in my mind (saying as delicately as possible: no, I don't believe it) when the second message came in: if i died, would you go and find someone to replace me? (my dear, i'm afraid i will do just that)

Gone was the delicious bubur ayam and in its place I had this inexplicable dillema to deal with.

It was like going back to elementary school days when instead of multiple choices, you had this 1000-word essay to write.

I was thorn between answering with the truth that would inevitable devastate her or telling her what she wanted to hear. Or there's a third option: I could go Chikidu's Academy of Saying the Right Things and come up with a fabulous, sweet-sounding, diplomatic answer.

Why? Why? Why? Why do these things need to be questioned? Why bother with the what ifs and the absurdly abstract concept of love? Why can we let things happen just the way it is?

Let's look at the first question. Although the question is forwarded in the most general manner, I have this strong suspicion that what she's asking was "Are you in love with me everlastingly?". Everlasting represents an unforeseenable stretch of time starting from the current and lasts through the future. Will I love her tommorow? I don't know! I don't even know if I'll still be breathing tommorow. How about a year from now? Well, I don't know. Lots of things can happen between now and then. The best I can come up with is; I will do what I can to love you now, tommorow, next year and the following period of time. As if you need an effort to love someone else...

The second questions deals with a what-if situation. There are people who remain single after their spouse died. But I guess that's because they couldn't find anyone with whom they can share their feelings with. In the event that such person is found, it is in a very high likelihood that they will remarry.
So, if I find that i'm capable of loving someone else after she died, there's a fat chance that I will remarry.

Is it possible to explain all of this via short messages? Nope
How about over the phone? Doubtful.
I packed my bags and caught a train to Semarang.

The New Crib

Well, I've finally done it. I've decided to move on. Shrug off my bachelorhood and all its privilieges and welcome myself to the realm of family-hood. I shall think as a bachelor no more, instead i shall think like a man with family. No longer will I rent a room like what I have been doing since i graduated from junior high. Nowadays I rent a 'rumah-petak' which is one step closer to a 'rumah'.

You see 'rumah petak' is just like rumah except that it is inhumanely small. The livingroom is 1,6 x 2,8 meters, only one bedroom which is 2 x 2,5 meters, a very small kitchen and equally mini bathroom. That's it. It's definetely not built for those with claustrophobia.

And it will be in that very place that I will learn what starting a family is all about.

That Thing That Grows on My Scalp

Every strand of my hair seems to have a mind of their own. And worse yet, it also appears that the concept of uniformity is also alien to them. Therefore lest i exercise some disciplinary measures, with the help of a barber or a trainee hairstylist, they tend to grow in whichever individual direction they so choose.

Their resistance to order became apparent during my last years of junior highschool. A few years later it turned into a full scale anarchy. Thus began my arduous battle with this particular part of my anatomy. My campaign began by visiting a Maduranese barber down the street. My years of observation tells me that this Maduranese fellows apply the most direct approach in the realm of hair-cutting. They nod at you and gesture toward the chair, wrap some cloth around you and without bothering to ask what particular hairstyle you fancy, they began to work on your head. In less than ten minutes everything is all over. Your hair is shorter and the barber a few thousands rupiahs richer. However it just so happen that there was an army barrack in the immediate vicinity and those army guys had been regular patron of the establishment. Thus, due to the barber's lack of communication skill I sported an army recruit look for several years.

I should probably warn you that Maduranese hair-cutting is not for the faint-hearted...nor the hygienic. There is a phase in this hair-cutting process in which the barber will trim the edges of your scalp. In doing so, instead of using Gillette safety razor that, above all, ensure our safety, they opt to use old fashioned butterfly knife, a razor-sharp, blood-chilling butterfly knife. First they wet the edges with a brush which is previously soaked in soapy water then in swift but devilishly firm movements they perform their skill with the knife. You can feel the cold steel grit against your neck skin and your mind tactlessly remind you that one wrong move can sever the arteries around your neck.

It is in this particular phase that I picture my self as a captured spy at the mercy of his interogator. My hand clenched and my mouth shut. The evil contra-espionage officer is torturing me with his knife trying to obtain precious information, which i would gladly give if i know what it is. This dreadful process takes about three minutes and i'm always glad everytime it's over.

However, after several years I found the tension was getting to my nerve so I decided to visit a 'salon'. Compared to the Maduranese barber, this is Shangri-la. The place was nicely clean and the attendants were absolutely charming and helpful. They used scissors most of the time and much to my relief, Gillette safety razor. In addition to all that I have to admit that being treated by the opposite member of my sex is actually nice. Sadly, things begin to change when my girlfriend found out that I had been frequenting a salon. She expressed her dislike that I chose to be a regular in a salon that, rumor had it, provided 'extra' services. Actually that explained why most of its clients were males of working age.

After a heated argument, which she won, of course, she decided to take this matter into her own hand and the following month she took me to another salon. I was about to protest when I immediately found out why she took me there. The salon was run by a man who tried really hard to look like a woman. He was doing a good job actually. If he wore make up i would not be able tell. Well, the problem was, I was never really comfortable being around these people. Call me shallow and homophobic but despite the decent haircut, i never went back.

Just when I thought that I'm losing the battle, I spotted a training salon offering haircuts for an extremely reasonable price. A training salon is where the apprentices and trainees practise their newly acquired skills to the poor souls who are willing to risk a week of bad-hair days. In the end, I thought what the heck! If something went wrong I could always go for the Buddhist monk look. So I went in.

The trainee looked nervous as I sat down. In the first ten minutes she had more trouble with the wire of her clipper than my hair. After a while she calmed down and were able, or so it seemed, to concentrate at the important matter. You see, when I took off my glasses, the world becomes blurry so i had no idea what she was doing. however, I found my self hissing prayers everytime her clippers buzzed way too close to my ears. Half an hour later she didn't seem to make any progress and i caught her staring at my head for a few moments as if trying to figure out what to do. Furthermore, much to my dismay, she excused hersef. I put on my glasses and was immediately shocked with what i saw.

Back when I was a kid I used to go to the ricefields near my house. After a night of rainstorm I usually found that the paddies were in a hell of disarray. The neat linings was all gone and the paddies scattered in various different direction. That was what I saw happened to my hair. Oh well..the monk look it is. This is the price of being too thrifty. I should've gone to the actual salon, rather than the training version of it.

However, it turned that the poor trainee went to summon the aid of her supervisor because she obviously thought that my hair was beyond redemption. So help came and with professional calmness the supervisor began his rescue efforts. Like many other rescue attempts, this one also attracted spectators. Before long other trainees began to flock in and watch thir supervisor performed a miracle. They made comments, ask questions, and made some suggestions and the supervisor responded in a patient, teacherly way. I guess that is how it feels to be a frog in a dissecting table.

Sadly, that was my last experiment to salvage my hair. From then on, everytime I sit on the barber/hairstylist/trainee-hairstylist's chair, I always say " Satu senti. Rata"

Hope and Expectation

There's nothing wrong with hope and expectation, really. They are inherently stored in our default system. The problem is that the process of hoping and expecting is both excruciating and tiring. So if you can't stand hoping and expecting, don't. Save your energy for things you can have, already have and those you take for granted.

However, there's a catch to it. Once you've given up hope and stop expecting you will lead a dull and uninteresting life. Your life will be uneventful because you also stop taking risks. There will be no surprises. The good news is you have less chance of getting hurt.

So if you think you will be able to grit your teeth and endure the pain everytime your expectation fails to materialize, go for it. Nurture your hope and build up your expectation. But if you think the pain is not worth all the while, stop hoping and expecting and welcome to a dull but depression-free life.

Maybe

Maybe I should pierce every possible part of my anatomy,
and then dye my hair with every possible color known to man,
and then tattoo whatever part still left exposed from the piercings,
and grow my hair long,
and get drunk,
and then get stoned,
and clobber people,
and get clobbered,
and hang my self from the ceiling,
or better yet crucify my self,
and have somebody burn my cross,
or maybe i should learn to love sincerely, without agenda,
and learn how to behave properly when someone loves me in return,
and devote my self to religion,
and detach my self from all worldly affairs,
and then maybe..just maybe, i will know what i really want.

Kindergarten Teachers

When a friend asked me which female with what occupation that i want to marry the most, i would answer 'a kindergarten teacher'. Well, i have to admit that it's not as kinky as nurses, secreatries, or, even better, flight attendants, but I have my own reasons.

Aside from the common assumptions that kindergarten teachers are good with kids, unbelievably patient(you have to be when your job involves 20 or more hollering little imps), and caring, the best reason for marrying a kindergarten teacher is that you get the opportunity to sit down next to one of her students and whisper to him,"Man, you won't BELIEVE what your teacher did to me last night!".

That Sleepy Smile Of Hers

It's 5 o'clock in the morning. Why was i already up at this odd hour? The answer, my dear friend, is because i was staying at my future in law's house. You don't really want to wake up at 9 if you're in my position, right? As i make my way to the bathroom i noticed that my fiancee's door was half open. After throwing caution to all wind direction i risked a peek in.

There she was. Still asleep. Curled up under the blanket, only her head was visible. You know i was always firm in my conviction that women look much, much better without make up and there i was looking at one more evidence. The worry-less expression, the messed hair. I've seen her in various shade of lipstick and other war paints, but nothing came even close to this. Cute as a teddy bear and innocent as kindergarten kids.

Then she woke up. Upon realizing i was at the door, she gave me a sleepy smile. Eyes half shut as the corners of her mouth curved slightly upward.

The impact on me was what can only be desribed as a rush of sugar to the head. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the sweetness of the moment. Only with a biblical scale of self control was i able to restrain my self from jumping in next to her and, well, express my self.

A Rainy Saturday

I wake up at 9 to the light drumming of rain against my corrugated tin roof. Oh my..good morning, Jakarta! A rainy day, eh? Correct that, a rainy SATURDAY! The day my Jakarta slows down a couple of beats. Nothing to worry about. Just cave in my snug cardboard-walled room, snuggle in my ever-so-comfy matress, and watch that heap of date-movies I bought previous week.

Checked the cellphones; two messages. One from my girlfriend, nope, fiance..heheh. It's funny how in nine out of ten messages she always includes 'udah maem blom?'. I guess she cares about my feeding habit more than I do. Second message..my boss. Uh-oh. This can't be good.

Yep, now i'm walking to my office. Unbelievable, gotta work overtime on a cloudy saturday and i'm already an hour late. So much for my lazy day. Crossing the Pejambon street to Borobudur. Relax, man. At least it has stopped raining.

You know that life has such a poor sense of irony. I hardly finished thinking about the word 'raining' when it actually rains. Heavily. I take out my umbrella but my Rp. 10.000,- umbrella i bought from a street vendor is defenseless against heaven's fierce onslaught. Within minutes i'm drenched from thigh down. And this poor excuse for an umbrella is leaking too. I should've gone for that Rp. 25.000,- but sturdier and larger one. I shouldn't have cared that it only came in electrifying pink and horribly screaming yellow. My backpack is already wet.

Office is a large room in the 8th floor of PAIK building. 300 meters to go. You can make it, man. Think about when all this is over and you're back in your room. Oh yeah, i forgot that to get there i have to wade accross ankle-deep pool of water. This is just getting better and better.

Man, did i tell you how i hate rain?

The Vow

Years ago, lonely and desperate,
I made a pact with God.
"Show me a woman who has even the tiniest crush on me,
and i will give her my all"
And then you walked in,
and i will keep my end of the bargain.

Jantung Nitor

Awan-awan bali kuliah pas lagi mlaku nang wetane nggone Yu Suyar ndilalah inyong nemu jantung. Jan-jane tah wis pirang-pirang dina inyong nggatekna kawit esih gemantung anangaring wit gedang."Ketone enak temen kae jantung", mbatine inyong. Eh pancen dhasare jodho, dina kuwe si jantung wis nlesep nang pagere embuh sapa.

Gandheng ora nana sapa-sapa tur ya enyong wis kencot banget, jantung kuwe banjur tek titor. Diarani nggragas ya emen. Terus enyong mampir maring warunge Yu Suyar, tuku bawang-brambang telungatus, lombok abang limangatus, kemiri rongatus (mung netuk rong blindhi, jan larang banget!), ampas kelapa limangatus, karo tempe limang iji.

Tekan ngumah ora nana sapa-sapa. Niliki sega esih ana, mau esuk berarti ana sing adang. Ya uwis, tek olah dhewek. Ganti klambi sedhela terus ngonceti jantung. Ketone tah gedhe ning nek kulit sing abang-abang wis diguwangi paling kari sekepel. Bar dionceti terus diparo terus digodog. karo ngenteni mateng inyong nggawe bumbune. Bawang brambang karo lombok diuleg, ditambahi kemiri terus diuyaih. Kabeh mau diuleg nganti alus.

Jantung sing wis mateng banjur dirajang-rajang. Tumpangna wajan anangaring kompor terus dilengani sethithik. Lenga wis panas bumbu dilebokna, dioasrang-asreng sedhela terus rajangan jantung dilebokna. Jan ambune enak temenan. Bareng ketone wis kalis disanteni. Wis kaya kuwe, kari ngenteni mateng.

Jangane jantung mateng, inyong banjur nggoreng tempe karo nyambel trasi.

Eh ya ndilalah inyong krungu ana swara montor teka. lha kiye..jurig-jurige pada teka. Eh temenan, adhi-adhiku pada bali. "Masak apa rika, Lik? Ambune tekan njaba" sing siji moni. "Wah ora kaya kakange enyong" ujare sing sijine maning bareng wis ndeleng ana jangan karo tempe. Loro-lorone banjur njokot piring. "Anu apa kuwe" sing ragil takon karo ngudek jangan. "Jantung", semaurku" anu nitor neng wetane Yu Suyar".

Bareng ngerti nek jantung kuwe olih nitor, ora nana sing gelem. Ya uwis, tek pangan dewek.

Lousy Defense

"She's just a friend!"
"Yes. I enjoy her company"
"No. I've never even met her. We had a strict agreement about NOT seeing each other in person"
"Yes. I do think about her sometimes. But it's different."
"Look, she's not any different from Rendy or Wahyudi. They are my friends. And so is she. We talk a lot. That's all"
"Well, of course she's female."
"Yes, i know things like that could happen. But it's not happening to me. That's what matters, am i right?"
"Look, you're making me feel like a monster here. She is a mature woman. She knows i have you, from the very beginning. She knows what she is doing. Whatever she feels for me is her department. Not mine."
"Yes, I could have prevented that. But how should i know that was THAT?"
"How do you define 'cheating' anyway?"

You'll Never Walk Alone

My love affair with Liverpool FC began on a fateful night sometime in 1985. My father woke me up in the middle of the night to watch the Champions Cup Final in Heysel Stadium, Belgium. A bit of information for all of you non-football fans, Champions Cup is the holy grail of European Football. It is pursued by the elite clubs of every nation in Europe. Anyway, that night Liverpool was up against the Italian giant, Juventus. I don't remember much about the match, but i remember a Juventus player executed a perfect penalty kick that turned to be the only goal of the match. Liverpool lost, but somehow my fascination for the club grew.

In the following years i tried to gather every scrap of information, mainly from second-hand newspapers as my family never subscribed any and back then TV live matches were somewhat of a rarity, i could get about the Merseyside Club. I learnt that that night 38 Italian fans and one Belgian died in a post match clash and Liverpool was banned from entering continental competition for several years.

I missed the days of Ian Rush, Peter Beardsley and John Barnes and the glory days when they won the English Premiere League. However, i was with them when Michael Owen, Steven Gerrard, Jamie Redknapp, Patrick Berger and the industrious Gary McAllister brought the club to near-glories. The days when SCTV and TV7 provides live matches on weekly basis and www.soccernet.com bring the latest news.

What i like about Liverpool is that they are more 'human' than any other clubs I know. Manchester United, Arsenal, Bayern Muenchen, Ac Milan, Juventus and Real Madrid are superclubs in that they can afford to have the most talented players in the world and they rarely lost. I mean if you watch them play, you know that they will eventually win the game so it's just a question of how the goals happen. But with a club as inconsistent as Liverpool, you never know. They lost 0-1 to Division II Burnley, yet they won againts the undefeatable champion Arsenal 2-1 at Anfield. For me, every Liverpool match is a potential thriller. I would stay awake reviewing the should haves, the would haves and the if onlys long after they lost a match, or reminsicing every glorious moments when they won.

I'll never forget the classic 2001 UEFA Cup Final match between Liverpool and Deportivo Alaves, deemed by most people as they greatest final match ever. Liverpool was the favorite to win the cup compared to the Spanish minnow and it seemed that the judgement was justified when they took a 2 goal lead with only 20 minute on the clock. The Spaniards however reminded them that the match was not yet over when they scored a goal just before half-time. Yet, the odd was back in Liverpool's favor when they widened the gap by scoring another goal. 3-1 to Liverpool. Alaves grabbed a lifeline 30 minutes from time following a mistake in Liverpool defence. Liverpool yet again extend their lead 15 minutes from the end of normal time. 4-2. However, the minnows turned mighty as they clawed back into match and scored two goals in 5 minutes to deny a normal time finish. The drama continued to extra time. The two finalists attacked each other with gusto, then 3 minutes from the end of extra time it happened. Following Gary McAllister's freekick an Alaves defender deflected the ball into his own net. Liverpool won under the golden goal rule. I can still remember the commentator on TV said "Not like this!" It is indeed a great pity that a valiant club such as Alaves lost because of an own goal.

The year of 2001 is a the closest Liverpool get to glory for 90s Liverpool fans such as myself. That year in addition to the UEFA Cup, they won the FA Cup, and finished 2nd in the premier league that enabled the to qualify for Champions' League. However, everything seemed to be going downhill from there. I watched their lacklustre performance as they were clobbered by Arsenal, MU, Southampton, Middlesborough. I watched them thrown out of competitions in early stages having beaten by lesser clubs like Watford or Swiss' FC Basel. One of my darkest day is when i found out that Michael Owen was tranferred to Real Madrid.

Liverpool today is a struggling club even to finish in the top 4. And this months they just suffered 3 losses in a row for the first time in 6 years. However my heart is with them. To me Liverpool is more than a football club. It reminds me how life actually works. That no matter you get trundled, trampled upon and clobbered, life goes on and eventually you will realize that glory is just around the corner.

The Rain

During my chat with a certain female individual several days ago, she told me how she loves rain. Apparently it is her custom to take a stroll outside whenever it rains. She furthermore told me that she loved the way each drop of rain falls over her body. Then, she said that she felt liberated. Although i failed to recognise the corelation between being wet and liberated i kept my fingers tied. To each his own. However, if somehow that is the case then it would be much easier for Ceylon's Eelam Tamil, Philipines' MNLF and Palestinian PLO to quit making bombs, simply drop their weapons, soak themselves in the rain and have themselves liberated.

Call me dull and insensitive but to me rain is nothing more than heaven's way to remind us that they too can be annoying sometimes. You are on your way to a very important meeting, you have spent the entire morning preparing the papers and selecting what tie to wear. As you walk merrily under the dubious grey sky, little drops of heaven begin pouring in. An individual drop here and there at first. Seconds later it begins its full scale assault, leaving no dry spot unwetted. Now what are your options? Running and scrambling for shelter? Even if it so happen that you brought an umbrella with you, you cannot avoid not getting wet. Speaking of umbrellas, here's a good argument. If human being was destined to actually enjoy rain, they wouldn't have invented umbrellas and raincoats in the first place. Or roofs, for that matter.

Thus, what i have come to realize is that what mankind actually enjoy is being OUT of rain's way. Rain is simply a breathtaking spectacle when you watch it from the warmth and comfort for your room with a mug of hot cappucino in hand. Rains makes heavenly music on your roof as you snuggle under your blanket.

However, if you'd rather be out there feeling heaven's poor sense of humor firsthand, be my guess. Soak thyself and be liberated!

Riding in Car With Boys

I was anticipating a quiet and comfy ride as I boarded the executive class train-car of Purwojaya, leaving from Gambir for Cilacap. However, a quick assesment of other passengers told me that apparently there were at least three kids sharing the same car. Immediately I realize that ‘quiet and comfy’ had just gone out the window.

Don’t get me wrong, I do like children. I enjoy the way they stare at you like you are a Martian. I love the cooing and the wobbly walk. I’m just not very fond of their banshee-like shrieking.

It’s not their fault, really. They are just much too young and inexperienced to grasp the concept of ‘public nuisance’ and they still have limited vocabulary range and grammatical understanding so whenever they cannot convey something in proper diction or grammar, they howl. Their parents, on the other hand, are very much aware of those concepts and quite capable of using proper rules of linguistics so they always try to put an end to the shriekings by hook and sometimes crook. I have seen this done so many times that I manage to categorize the approaches used by those poor parents to silence their children.

First, and the most widely used, is the authority approach. “We’re the parents and you will shut up when we tell you to shut up”. This and a fair amounts of buttock pinching usually do the trick. Too much pinching, however will result in the increase of noise-level. Verbal threats like “Wait till we get home!” or “No more cookies for you!” rarely work. The second approach is the diversion. Parents try to divert the crying children’s attention by pointing to another direction and said “Look! A cow!” It is safer, however, to point OUTSIDE. Pointing somewhere inside the car and saying the aforementioned phrase is not advised. If this doesn’t work however, they usually use the same technique but with a more fascinating animal. Their last resort of parents in favor of this approach will be to make funny face and voices. Other than ridiculous, it is also useless. The third and final approach is to succumb to the crying children’s demand. Give them what they want. Milk, candy, sweets, cookies, everything. This the most effective but ego bruising at the same times.

My observation also tells me that parents make all that efforts for a single motive. They are not disturbed by the noise because after several years of parenthood they became immune to it. They are more concerned by the thought that other people will consider them as a ‘bad’ parents as to not to be able to control their own offsprings. Hmm..maybe I was wrong with my earlier assumption. Maybe those ungrateful brats DO understand the conceptions of public nuisances and furthermore use that angle to force their parents to do their biddings. The controllers become the controllees. These evil geniuses come up with this barbaric extortion scheme with their ability to produce high-pitched wailings to demand stuffs from their forsaken parents who in order to avoid being branded as ‘bad’ parents will have no other choice but to comply. Brilliant.

So let’s get back to my would-be-unpleasant situation. The first child sat right in front of my and was busy staring at the moving landscape. Must have been a pretty fascinating sight for one so young. Somebody should tell him that it was the train that moved. Not the landscape. The second child was across the aisle and was asleep. I couldn’t see what the third was doing because she was seated a few rows back. All is quiet in the western front. But not for long.

The train barely passed Bekasi when the child across the aisle decided that it was time to wake up. Upon finding himself in a strange environment which was nothing like, I imagine, his colorful room with cut-out cartoon characters hanging above his bed, he started to howl his head off. His parents frantically tried to calm him down with the diversion tactique, pointing to every possible directions and saying many irrelevant words, from ‘a tree’ to ‘a whale’. Cookies and chocolate offers ensued but the wailing kid just wouldn’t budge. I can’t help but wonder whether there was a telephatic relationship among children because the first kid’s screaming immediately triggered the child sitting right in front of me. He stopped watching the running trees and began to cry in earnest. Louder too. In matter of minutes the third child happily joined the chorus and was accompanied by another one further back, I must have missed him during the headcount. All hell broke loose is much too mild to describe this erratic scene. Four high spirited children in a united effort to break the world record for noise level and four set of busy parents trying various tricks to prevent them. It was like being at Limp Bizkit concert, only less entertaining.

Two years later, their soul-numbing wailings still had not subdued and people were getting restless. I had to hand it to the kids for their stamina and tenacity. A young woman made some suggestions to the second child’s parents but his mother was quick to point out that the matter was being handled. Finally the defeated father took his screaming spawn out of the comparment. I never know what he did but a few moments later the kid returned and was very quiet. This method was followed by three other fathers and soon we had our much needed silence. However, I know for a fact that these kids were merely recharging their battery for another, more brutal, assault. And as always, I was right.

Morning Thoughts

Uh, okay. It's 7.30. Where am i? Oh, the Kill Bill movie poster. I'm in my own room. Is it weekend? No, i don't think so. What day is it? Monday? Tuesday? Nevermind. Gotta get up. Gotta get up.

Clock icon on the LCD of my cellphone. Must have missed both daily alarms. The 5.15 'subuhan dulu tuyul!' and 5.30 'tangi, su!'. This is totally absurd. With the office only 20 minutes away on foot who needs to get up at 5.15?


Scattered DVDs on the floor. Oh yeah, i watched the Fight Club for the umpteenth times last night. Tyler Durden. Self improvement is masturbation. Wow. What kind of person would come up with a line like that? A deep-seated philosopher? A deranged psycho?

Peanuts packages and beer cans. My housemates must have been here last night. The thoughtless slobs. I should come over and wreck their rooms for a change. See how they like it.

An empty bottle of rum. Cheap 250 ml Mansion House Tangerang-made rum. A far cry from those drunk by the wooden-legged hook-armed sailors of Treasure Islands. I don't remember getting drunk.

This pillow feels sooo good! Is it raining outside? They should cancel work when it rains. Darn! Somebody 'borrowed' my umbrella. How can i get it back? How can i get to work?

Ratih's picture smiling at me from the night table. Night table? What night table? It's the cardboard box that came with the DVD. Put a table cloth on it. Voila. Night table. Oh dear love, i can still smell the scent of your skin.

Shit! It's 7.45. Did it take THAT long to think all these thoughts? Gotta get up. Gotta get up.

Gotta get a life.