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…
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
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…
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…
Monday, August 08, 2005
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.
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.
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