WEEKEND PLAYLIST #1

It eases me to see life through the melodies (I'm not such a lyric person) of John Mayer, Ed Sheeran, and Tulus. Mayer's songs mostly sound as if you've been through the underground and now you're starting to see the peek of light from the ground level. Ed Sheeran's give a spice and laughter through all the bads (and goods) in life. Whilst Tulus' give a room for yourself; to contemplate everything you want and need to think/rethink about.

Clarity - John Mayer

I'm Not In Love - Diana Krall

Tukar Jiwa - Tulus

Salamku Untuk Kekasihmu Yang Baru - RAN

Our Day Will Come - Jamie Cullum

No Such Thing - John Mayer

On A String - Mama's Gun

Not Myself - John Mayer

High and Dry - Jamie Cullum

Stop This Train - John Mayer

Cahaya - Tulus

the working space

The air conditioner is set for 20oC
It's bright outside and the glimpse of light rays through the peek of window
The fluorescent light of the room is turned off, so it's dim
but this is not the scary kind of dim you'd have at night
It's rather.... warm and cozy
the cool breeze from the air con keeps you from the hot weather outside
your laptop is place upon a pillow, seated on your lap
the mini speaker is playing random songs you like from Spotify
and all the sounds there is,
the air conditioner breeze, the random songs in medium-low volume, the clicking sound from typing,
create a memory in your subconscious about an effective study space that works for you.

This is just one model of study space I cotton to
I am expanding for new models to be planted in my subconscious
[it is definitely never gonna be Starbucks for it is crowded, noisy,
and the seating is awful -quicksand sofas or tiny chairs with low tables you need to bend to type or read something- also it is quite intimidating for some reason, which I haven't discovered yet.
it is also never going to be a friend's house. You don't study at a friend's house. If you do it'll be like... 30 minutes -divided to a few small windows of study duration- and the rest of the hours will be spent, of course, talking -nothing related to the subject, but more of applied theories IRL]

cure for february weep

RAIN | Soyou X Baekhyun

LET ME LOVE YOU | Junggigo X Chanyeol

WOULD YOU COME TO ME | Brother Su

SHAPE OF YOU | Ed Sheeran

CAVE ME IN | Gallant X Tablo X Eric Nam

MOON, 12:04 AM | offonoff

3 AM | HONNE

어설퍼져 | Rheehab (beat by Duny)

SEND ME | Taek

YOUR EYES | Hoody feat. Jay Park

BYE BYE MY BLUE | Yerin Baek

WISH | Urban Zakapa

WHERE ARE YOU | Sam Kim

I MISS YOU | Soyou

FOR LIFE | EXO

I'M NOT OKAY | Chen

why my fictional characters are doomed to failure

I don't remember when, but since childhood I guess I've liked to make up stories. I've been reading cheap-story novels (as in shallow lovey-doveys) for a long time (although now I've committed my sins and slowly turn into heavier materials, as in literature -see my rant upon trying to understand it here) and the girl main characters (usually I read the girls ones) usually inspire me. Some novels made me want to jump into the stories, and I even sort of try being in the character as I live reality (and I failed hard, surely, as these novels are very unrealistic).

Post finishing a novel or watched a great romantic movie, I would start making up fictional character (I usually start with a girl) and draw its 'perfectly imperfect' life. But I could never finish any of my draft (just some silly paragraphs, to say it right). None other because 1) As a writer, you're supposed to torture your characters, and I create my characters too perfectly that nothing could harm their well-beings, 2) I could not bear the fact that my character has a huge flaw. Then I realized, I didn't create these characters I type, backspace, then delete for good in order to tell a story. 

For all these years I've been creating [female] characters as a manifestation of people I wish to become. I didn't create them too perfectly, as in popular, angelic, smart, well-mannered, have many adored talents, plays piano, sporty, and all sorts in one person; that is I know for sure is nearly impossible even in novels. I tend to create a physically pretty (not out-of-the-world beautiful or superstar charismatic, just fond and charming), smart, and confident females. They are busy bees, have a great social life, and financially well off (not heiresses). You know, that girl in high school who's adored by many boys, surprisingly very nice, and excels both academically and non-academically. To top it off, she reads some interesting books (not cheap romances). Even girls would fall for her. 

That's the girl I always wanted to be. and so far I've been creating fictional characters, in a hope that it would inspire me to make myself be one, but... no, I just watch or read something new, wipe the old fictional role model, then create a new one; a new goal. 

My birthday fell on the same day of Jakarta's Governor election day. I felt somewhat... special. Plus, I was turning 20. I spent most of the day with my high school friend who was currently coming back home that day. I accompanied her to Serpong for lash extension and we each ate a plate of Pontianak mixed pork rice. There was an option to spend my special day with the most special person, my mom, but somehow I always choose to spend my time with other people but my mom whenever I have the chance. I mean, there are times when I miss her, because... well, she's a home. I think it's true what my mom said that there's something wrong with me (mentally or spiritually, definitely not physically) and I need to fix it asap through a sort of meditation camp. When I think of it, I hate her. It's also true what she said that I could not be told what to do. How I see it is that my feelings, my subconscious, contradicts with my logic and the reality. The fact is she has helped me through so much, I owe her my life, but sometimes this strange hatred toward her emerges upon the silliest reason... when she tells me to love. When she tells me about acceptance and understanding. And I hate how sensitive and self-righteous she is... oh God, she's so screwed up. I wonder how she (or both my parents as they each took the part in my 'golden age') made me think of such about her.

So it's never been a loving relationship between me and her (in my perspective), but a love-hate one.

Okay, this was supposed to be a birthday post.

a survey of classical music

I am amazed by this very part of the movie: when Zibby tells Jesse to give a try for classical music in the middle of going through his day in the city. It's both beautiful and funny (makes me want to give that, too, a try) at the same time. So, you just need the right soundtrack in order to change your way to see things around you. Real talk, a city is overpopulated and most of its citizens are, well, not very pleasing to be around with, considering all those stress and workload they prioritize in order to survive in this lego palace*.

I wouldn't give a review of the whole movie, but this is just one of those interesting non-mainstream genre movies I'm always up for watching. I enjoy their deep thought conversations -feels like I'm in a lit class discussion. It takes quite a skill to pull of these kind of 'smart-ass' conversations in real life that will not make the parties seem like cocky satyric poets. Anyhow, here's a short gratitude letter from Jesse which I find... substantial.

*lego palace: a metaphor I use for a fast, ever-growing place called the city. You ground things, and build new ones, modify the yesterdays, building frames for tomorrows.

"Dear Zibby,

I can't thank you enough for introducing me to this music. Beyond just genuinely loving it, I feel it's quietly altering my feeling about New York City, with which I've always had a slightly conflicted relationship. I've found that if you replace the horns and the shouting with, say, Schubert or Telemann, the city becomes unbearably beautiful. After years of thinly disguised rage on both our parts. It's like the music had mediated a truce between us. Some early favorites, Massenets Meditation. If a more beautiful piece of music has ever been composed, I don't know it. That Brandenburg concerto is no joke, and I echo your sentiment regarding Beethoven. Whoa. I have no idea what the Vivaldi piece from Giustiono is actually about, but to me, it suggests deception, some kind of elegant double-crossing. It makes me feel like I'm a double agent knee deep in some kind of sexy espionage. I've decided the Wagner overture you included should come with a warning label. According to some quick online research, the opera deals with the struggle between sacred and profane love, which is arguably the only struggle there is. The other day, I was crossing the street lost in my head about something, a not uncommon state of affairs. I was listening to the overture, and as the music began to swell, I suddenly realized that I had hands and legs and a torso and that I was surrounded by people and cars. It's hard to explain exactly what happened. But I felt in that moment that the divine, however we may choose to define such a thing, surely dwells as much in the concrete and taxi cabs as it does in the rivers, lakes, and mountains. Grace, I realized, is neither time -nor place- dependent. All we need is the right soundtrack. I suppose this new infusion of music in my life is, at the very least, making me reconsider my hostility to dead, white males. And I have you to thank for that. How's things, by the way?

Your friend,

Jesse Fisher"

counting

I've lost count of how many people who have said I'm nasty, fussy,
and given me disgusted looks.
I've lost count of how many people who have said I'm fat,
both politely or frankly.
When I ask people what is good about me
many of them say, "Well, you're smart..."
Some others say I'm sincere.
Only one person tells me, no absent, that I'm pretty
something I always wanted to hear, ungrateful and artificial as it sounds.

My friends laughed at my personal journals,
in other words, at my thoughts.
Only one told me to keep going
and that what I do is good.

Only one person who has all the rights to take over my life,
and that is Him.
So, I think... I'll move on and give my best to meet His plans.

and so my mom made me hot cocoa...

My mom made me hot cocoa
after I cried the residue of my tears earlier this afternoon.
Maybe I was tired,
maybe I hate what I did,
maybe I wished I'd been mean and out of contact
not the one who raises her hand for quick help at any second,
maybe it was my period,
maybe I deserve to cry for all's sake.
I was walking to my faculty to drop the remaining unclaimed graduation gifts my religious community prepared
when I ran into my friend.
I could only gave a hopeless smile.
I was going to just pass by and made her wonder,
but I stopped at her side and received her hug.
I cried.
Sob.
Weep.
"It's like I'm holding a big baby!" she said while I still held her tight.
I told her as much bits as I could let out in the midst of my sobbing
of why I became such cry baby.
Actually, I didn't know why I cried myself;
it was the maybes and combination of them all.

then my mom made me hot cocoa (of my surprise)

IMPERSONATING MY MUM

Daily Conversations

“Ih, terseraaaah....”

(Uh, whatever...)

“PAKE BAJU!”

(GET YOUR CLOTHES ON)

“Akhirnya anak ini mandi juga.”

(Finally you take a shower)

“Enak aja, mami kan ga begitu! Kamu suka mengada-ada deh, melebay-lebaykan.”

(I’m not like that! You just make things up, overstate things)

“Eh, tau nggak barusan mami beli apa? Hihihihihik.”

(Do you know what I just bought? Hihihihi)

usually plants, fish, figurines, or wooden statue.

"Aduh, ini anak kentut lagi! BAU BANGET!"

(Ewh, you farted! SMELLS AWFUL!)

the most effective way to get her out of my room when she ain't sleepy.

"Aduuh jangan, nanti gendut. Kan kamu mau diet."

(Oh, don't, you'll get fat. Didn't you say you want to diet)

"EMBERRRR..."

(OBVIOUSLYYY...)

About Our House

“Nanti tuh mami mau beresin, tapi nggak sekarang. Belum sempet-sempet nih.”

(I’ll tidy things up later, but not now. I haven’t got the time somehow)

her arts & crafts “supplies” are still mountaineering in a small room next to mine, which my friends thought is a stockroom.

"Biarin ajaa... rumah-rumah mami. Nanti kalo kamu punya rumah sendiri terserah deh ya..."

(Whatever, it's my house, duh. Later when you have your own house it's all up to you...)

when I cringe over her decorations and choice of color or, well, just how much plants and trinkets she spreads in all corners of the house.

When I Talk About My Friends

“Kasian ya temen kamu itu... ckckck.”

(Poor thing your friend is... ckckck)

"Bilangin tuh temen kamu..."

(Go tell your friend that...)

The Most Effective Way for Her to Make Me Do Things

“Kamu temenin mami dong, masa mami sendirian. Gak kasih uang jajan nih.”

(Come with me, there’s no way I’m going alone. If you won’t, I won’t give your allowance either)

would've liked it.

Today is my mom's birthday.

Today she turned off her phone, so she wouldn't be expecting any birthday wishes.

Today I accompanied volunteers from China, an AIESEC program in my campus.

Today I finally watched the movie everyone's been positively ranting about (some record themselves playing keys of the original score, some snap their Spotify screen)
Today I also, finally, got to taste the famous PABLO cheesecake and I must say... it tasted like sin.

About the notorious La La Land

Some may think it wasn't a proper ending for the characters. They don't deserve that! But I say, it was the perfect ending. It is because of the bittersweet ending that the depth of the movie left us all in a sorrowful awe.

From what I saw from Instagram stories, photo captions, blog posts, Youtube, and such, I kept finding similar reviews: that they all left speechless (as if the movie was out of the limitations of complimentary words) and hungover for days. Like breaking up on good terms with the sweetest guy ever met. At least, that's what I got from the emotionally unstable reviews.

I got so captivated by a few scenes that I thought I'd crush my hair clip between my fingers. One of them was when Sebastian deviated the usual score at the restaurant. I never thought I had enjoyed jazz so much until that scene. My friend, who had watched it for the fourth time and was still awed by the motion, though that I, too, was in that weird hollow state after watching it. It was either he hadn't known me well enough or I was such a natural actress (prefer the second one) that he didn't notice how much I faked my speechlessness. I didn't do it merely because I was too tired to argue with him if I had said, "It was... so-so, I mean..." but partly because I wanted to convince myself to like this movie; to be as speechless as most people did.

Perhaps I didn't want to face the reality that I am one of those people who aren't fond of art and couldn't appreciate great movies other than the ones with lots of actions, horror, and mind-blowing visual effect. Someone who is mainstream and dislike unique alternatives. Perhaps this is all just personal preference.

I personally didn't like the characters. I repeat, personally. I would fairly say that the characters' development, how one is connected to another, how each is portrayed, and how each falls into scenes was spotless. But the two main characters wouldn't be my favorite people in real life. If Sebastian was just an average looking, not Greek God-like, man, he would be such a pain. The typical idealist artist (well, it is the luxury of an artist, is it not supposed to?) And if Mia was as average looking, she would be a fussy grumpy actress wannabe.

But who am I to judge?After all, I was given the satisfaction that each character maturated beautifully, the scores and choreography and motions are flawless, and the ending... well, it was suitable (couldn't google a better word to say it).

Maybe I would have liked it if other variables were fit; if I wasn't sore after a long day outside, if I wasn't hungry, if I wasn't thinking about my diminishing ATM balance, if I didn't come with such high expectation of the movie.

distinction of me and those around me whom i very much adore

we all thrive to challenge ourselves to the limit.
we all dream of a life filled with new experiences everyday, uncertain schedule, various places, various people, various matters.
we all want to have a great social life and clings on one or a few most treasured.
we all need that doze of romance in our already-brilliant life.
we all want to be financially independent.
we all want to explore new things and, lately, that 'easily bored' characteristic refers to something positive.

the distinct difference between each of us all is how we act it out. how we failed/succeeded to manifest our desires into reality.

yet another murmur

I wonder what it takes to have a rather decent social life.

I wonder how to be culturally immersed.

I wonder how to extract something from my head which makes money while sitting at some corner round an overly priced coffee shop with cool interior.

I don't like concerts or watching live music and such and such. I find it quite boring just watching someone singing or playing music. I do enjoy it as a background, but not as my focus. When you couldn't help but notice your legs starts to feel weary, the sweat drips down along your temples and cheek as the cramming people move along the jam surround you, and finally you couldn't focus on enjoying the performance as you're supposed to; then it is not your cup of tea.

I thought secondhand shopping and vintage hunting would be a quirky fun experience. But the supposedly 're-treasurable' goods are forthright junk. And the supposedly half-priced (or even quarter) vintage are still pricey and pretty much useless.
[So I just hold on to my own grandparents' inheritance.]

I thought everybody's new. But then I realize they already form cliques, settled, done numerous proud-material achievements, and it's me that's left behind.

His house

I just went to his house.

It wasn't quite what I expected, yet it wasn't so surprising either. I just... still don't know how to feel right now. I need to wake up at dawn tomorrow, yet it's thirty over ten and I still couldn't make myself asleep as the dead. Maybe it's my boarding house bed which I hadn't slept in for a few good weeks, or maybe it's what I just experienced; I went to his house.

I talked to my friend over the phone, didn't specifically to talk about him (again and again, and so forth), though I did mentioned him. And how I think I'm still not over him.

I quite get it when people say all the bad things about their lovers and speak of countless reasons on why both should break up instantly. But they just couldn't do it. When asked why not, they'd just shrug and murmur, "Dunno..."

I "dunno" why I'm still nervous upon the thought of going to meet him and still try to recall everything that happened when we do cross paths. Our conversations are merely small talks, nothing profound (although, silly enough as I think of it now, I tried a few times to open up and talk about personal stuffs back then when I was madly crushing on him, before I could finally regain my composure and senses). He never shows any sign of being fond of me; slim chance it'll ever happened (if I get to follow his second account on instagram -which I was quite surprised he's the type to have one- I'd be an awesome fangirl).

I've asked a couple of people with a sort of sixth sense (I partly believe in such spiritual, supernatural, and superstitions) and all stated -firmly- that I'd never even date him or get romantically involved in anyway possible. Honestly, I couldn't imagine a happy future together if I were ever to be destined with him either. I could only picture myself as a woman who somewhat fits to be on his side, but not the woman I aspire to become (reminds me of how my mom tried to bury herself in order to fit the "ideal" or "common", to fit the mainstream; and look how it became one of her biggest regret).

I just adore him for no reason.
or perhaps there is a reason. I just haven't dared to contemplate and figure out what it really is.


[and I'm still trying to rip him off my mind because I don't wish to be that person who graduates from college with a heart still lingers to an unrequited adornment. I am, for the note, will not be as pathetic]

originally written on January 14, 2017. Revised on January 17, 2017.

A View of One's own

I sat here on the same sanctum spot I've discovered yesterday. A foldable round seat at the porch (which my mom was so proud of when she first bought it, and compared to what her sister would have bought for the same price: a set of picnic lunchboxes and cups. Well, she did bought them, my aunt, for about the same price), my feet against the rawly done brick pillar. I protested on the pillar, saying that it looks dirty, but my mom just dismissed me, saying she liked it rustic and natural. I could only see the people passing by the street in front of my house, which that is also blocked by the greens my mother planted. Sometime near I would move the chair and the squared side table right behind the gates, so that I could see the continuous activity around the basketball court and the intersection. Then of course, I'd make myself a black coffee (I think I'd like it better than those with cream) and some 'goodness' (read: biscuits or bread or pastry). It's a cheaper alternative to achieve that "coffee shop vibe". Need to save money for... idk what emergency or urgent wish that may come in the future, which definitely does not involve hanging at an awkwardly short table and uncomfortably small-ass chair with an overly priced coffee.

written originally on January 13, 2017. Revised on January 17, 2017.

an awareness of present; one afternoon in the house

I lay here on the sofa in my house's so-called living room (it has no table or consists of a set of sofa with common template sizes and all the same color; my mother isn't the type to follow nonsense rules of aesthetic). The softness of the lambskin covering the sofa welcomes my sore back for it hasn't had any physical activities for weeks. The pillows take up the small space I'm supposed to own of the sofa for my big figure.

My maid is sweeping the floor. She always thumps when she cleans, whether it's the broom, the figurines she cleans, or the trash bin. My mother and I agreed that she is absolutely not the kind of old Javanese lady whose moves gentle as feather for she is old and weak and... Well, Javanese (but she does walk silently that it sometimes scares me and my mom when she calls our name with a high tone and appears out of nowhere for the sound of her steps is faint). Instead, we think she has a range within herself, unable to be expressed, so she delivers all the energy towards her monotonous routine (which includes blaming my mother for everything wrong in the household facility, and watching us from her room -situated along the kitchen line- as we cook as if we have illegally inhabited her restricted area and seems to wait for us to make mistake so she could judge us for it).

A stream of ants lines from the front door to the aquarium. It seems that a fish had jumped out of the suffocating glass prison (just to find yet another physically suffocating environment). Maybe it wanted a new life and be reborn as something more... of power.

A neighbor is practicing violin. The sound of it is rough, but it doesn't sore the ears either. Maybe it's because I don't usually feel bothered by noises. I just choose to ignore them, naturally, and focus on what I want to focus on. such as writing this note... or start noticing the basketball kids...

The kids have begun to play basketball. My house is about the outdoor basketball court and soccer field. My mother said it was a dream come true, because she had always wanted a house near a communal facility. "There'll always be people around, it's safe, not scary and dark and quiet." She has simple dreams, my mother. She never wish for mansions, luxury travels, or a pair of Choos. She just wants to live happily, naïve as it sound. She believes that happiness always comes first in order for people to have a satisfying life. In fact, think about it, it is all humans' life goals, isn't it? (we only diverse in terms of how we define and measure happiness).

I never got to know any of the basketball kids. I had daydreamed about one of them having a crush on me (fyi, my junior high school crush once played at the court and picked up the ball which was thrown and rolled in front of my house; I was at the terrace and we exchanged awkward 'hi's) and would throw the ball to roll in front of my house just to have a conversation with me (the tactical accidental occurrence is classic). It never came true, of course. It takes a charming your lady to attract such bees and I was never a heart-stopper myself. yet.

written originally on January 10, 2017. Revised and posted on January 17, 2017. 

to all the journals i've written (and yet to write)

I don't know what it is in my culture that says keeping a diary (or a journal, same difference) is childish, embarrassing, lovey-dovey. Yes, everything written in a diary does sound silly as they are not meant to be verbally spoken. For some people, telling a bestie or a perfect stranger would be the ultimate solution of relief, but both are still humans, note that. Humans have a life, feelings, and their conditions are not always suited to comfort the other. Humans also have their own characteristics that (even your bestie) may not suit the sort of therapy you long for. For some other people, like me, writing is the best therapy. Yes, you heard it, therapy (read this if you still laugh about diaries).

I've had been writing [journals, or diaries as you prefer to call it -though it sort of carries different meaning] since elementary school, perhaps 4th or 5th grade, where my depression started to swell. I was socially alienated (more like, I alienate myself), bullied for my physique (elementary school kids are the cruelest I suppose, for they have understood right-wrong, good-bad, pretty-ugly, yet they still innocently perceive things and bluntly say what's on their minds), and maybe some part about my parents' divorce (I didn't take much care for that. I mean, I was sad and disappointed and quite mad, but I was mostly focus on my own social and physical depression). I was (and am still sometimes) up to a point where I thought I need to be officially admitted to a mental asylum. Fortunately enough, I was never admitted, because my mom chose to treat me herself whilst setting aside her own depression from the divorce (I still feel bad for being a burden to my mom who was going through a much harder time than I was, but if she hadn't done it and focus on healing herself only, I may not be the person I am today -still not golden-material, but I grew up normally and have friends).

My mom plays a major part upon bringing me back into my senses, but I still have thoughts I couldn't share with my mom or my friends, and perhaps they wouldn't understand or just give a respond I am not hoping for. Writing would be a therapy and mood-reliever (not a booster, it doesn't have that much of an effect). Pre-writing feelings would be messed up, hysterical, too excited, too dreamy, while post-writing feelings would usually be preserved, normally happy, and content. I've read or heard about it somewhere-sometime that writing [journal] is also a form of meditation (something my mom keep fussing me about, but the more she fusses the more I refuse).

I am not the best person to keep my personal life from spilling all over the place, let alone keeping my journals in a safe haven. I'd usually have it in my drawer or under the pillow for I could easily have access to it, but then so did my friends. The thing is, I like inviting my friends to hang out in my room.

I think I've told (and written) this a million time. The time my junior high "friends" locked me out of my own room, searched for my journal, and read it aloud. Unbelievably, none of them knew the existence of the journals, except one; the girl I thought was a true friend, naive as it may sound. Unbelievably, I was still "okay" in front of them and let them hang out for a bit 'till dusk. Unbelievably, as two-faced as I might be, I still join a LINE group consisting of the people who read my journals off my permission, and reunite with them from time to time afterwards (I think it was 2015 that I last met them. I just never showed up in groupchat and refused meet-up invitations. I could've stopped hanging out with them as soon as we graduated from junior high, but I was damn curious about their current lives -I wanted to see the karma worked on getting their lives miserable or at least worse than I am. But now I'm not as curious, I guess I've let go of the grudge and just want to have nothing to deal with them).

Very recently, about the end of last year when I had my high school friends to come over, they found my journals. They wouldn't have read it if I insist (in a serious tone) that it's private. But I didn't want to ruin the mood and I thought they'd just keep nagging me about it, so I let them read some old journals from junior high, in which most of the people in there they didn't recognize. It was "safe to read and laughable" journals, but still... I felt invaded and stripped naked.

I didn't write at the beginning of high school, a while post my junior high friends' intrusion. Then I started to write again up until the very end of last year, when my high school friends did the same thing, but only more... humanely and polite. I still haven't decided whether or not to continue writing on journals, because every time this happens, there's then this voice in the back of my mind saying, what's so great about it that you need to write it down? guess your life's that boring for you to think such event is note-worthy. why do write such silly stuff? they are out of importance.

I don't know what it is about people who are so eager to read others' journals. Do you expect to have a material to laugh about in the future? Do you seek for answers? Do you seek for scandalous secrets? Well, in my case, you'd only find unimportant rants, depressed handwriting, and geeky thoughts. My social life isn't as scandalously interesting, thank you very much. (you will find some laughable materials anyway, but I will not appreciate your actions and wouldn't show it in front of your face -as cowardly as I may be, I'll just draw myself out of your life quietly)

[I found some time ago that my mom experienced similar thing about her diary being read aloud by her brother when she was little. Ever since then, she never writes a single thought.]

The Incapability to be immersed in literature and grasp artistic elements and riling obvious meanings of legendary works

Let's be honest,

When you try to enhance the depth of your knowledge (read: getting smarter in general) in hope that your perspective will grow variously and your critical thinking skill sharpens, you often find yourself thinking: what the fuck does this depressing crap try to tell. Most times, the list of famous books or movies and such ("TOP 100 BOOKS TO READ BEFORE YOU DIE") includes the works of the strangest, obscure, probably depressing or creepily happy, melancholic or bluntly written. When you read or watch them you [think you] are supposed to feel something; mind blown, sudden joy and motivation to live, or that uneasy spark. Could be the strings of words are too complicated, too unfamiliar, too much awkward silence in a scene, peculiar clown-like characters which end up haunting you every night, or that agitating ending. The point is, you just don't get it. You don't get the magic (doesn't have to be in positive terms; there is always the dark magic) of these notorious works (and you're still mesmerized by Troy and Gabriella's love story, and still mourn over how such perfect couple ended their relationship IRL). Therefore you wonder to yourself: am I just shallow and too clingy to popular culture or is it just a matter of personal taste?


[for this I still have the question left unanswered myself]

A Few Wise Words

The student-teacher relationship is something... well, I don't really have one that I treasure, I suppose. When I was in school, I did get recognized well by some teachers (whether due to my lovely grades, my ability and willingness to tutor my academically-less-capable friends, or my awful sports skill, or my rather garish behavior), but I never get personally close to any, as it would feel very awkward (a classmate I knew since junior high had always been trying to get 'friendly' with teachers. I mean, who would invite teachers to a birthday party? her). Nonetheless, there are a few teachers, might not be my favorite ones, whose words of wisdom inspired me. Here are three wisdoms I've always been recalling from it is said.

"Usaha sama dengan hasil."

(work equals results)

-my high school physics teacher

"Tidak ada ilmu yang sia-sia."

(no science is vain)

-my high school principle (who also taught biology, one of my favorite subjects -but not the teacher herself, though)

"Kamu tahu gimana caranya menulis yang baik? Banyak-banyak membaca."

(do you know how to write decently? Read lots)

-my college lecturer (I wrote a long entry about her in my journal about the end of last year as she's such an inspiring woman)

Perhaps these words sounds undoubtedly cliché, yet to hear it directly in the midst of frazzle, distractions, quandary, or such feelings, these words come in as a smash of motivation. 

PAYING OFF MY DEBT (1) : OCTOBER

Okay, so I have A LOT of debt by now. I have been quite occupied these last few weeks (yup, up until November–when I start typing this). The midterm, the event (it didn’t take much of my time, but let’s include it), the instagram and pinterest, and fund raising (especially this). Another reason why I haven’t posted anything for so long is that I want to post something critical and ‘sounds smart’ –written systematically, almost like an essay (or maybe an essay). However, I haven’t found any topics worth writing –more like, “I have been too lazy to concentrate on a certain topic, arranging the ideas systematically, and do the research”. I mean, my blog should be my portfolio, right? Something employers can check out if they want to see my writing style/skill, topics I’m interested in, the way I think and construct ideas, so on.

So, what’s been happening in October exactly? I don’t recall every little details, but I think I’ve written down the big picture (plus how I felt/thought at the time) in my journal.

A Treasured Organizing Committee Work

It is one of the many (creative, innovative, let me praise) programs held by my major’s student association. The program is basically a talk show event which appoints the matter of entrepreneurship and creativity. The outcome might seemed like a fairly ordinary campus talk show with the ‘trendiest’ guests, but it’s how the committees prepared for this event that has to be appreciated. I have to admit, this was the first event I joined where I could work systematically and still psychologically care about my co-workers (both from my own division and other divisions).

            There was quite a ‘funny’ story of how I ended up being in this committee. I signed up for the open recruitment, sometime in September, got interviewed, and accepted. The thing is that there was an unwritten and absolutely informal ‘rule’ that open recruitment for such committee is for freshmen, not sophomore; sophomores were mostly recruited through closed and informal interviews. Of course, this does not apply to all events held this semester (due to this ‘trauma of shame’ I did not join another interesting event held by my major this semester which I will tell you sometime later), but it seemed to apply for this one. When I signed up, my motivation was nothing but, “Oh, this is my best friend’s program (she was the secretary). I think it’ll be fun to join in.” Innocently as I’d always been...

            Nonetheless, I am deeply thankful that God and all nature forces somehow put me in this committee. I met new people; got to know a few freshmen (as I failed to join the freshmen orientation committee) and got to know better some people from my class (of 2015). To be honest, I learned and earned a lot more (than other committees I’d joined before) from this program.

 [I was in sponsorship division, if you are wondering. It was a lot of pressure as we goaled a full sponsor about a week before the event, so we needed to work out branding ideas for this company. But I did, for a moment, felt like I’d been helping other divisions but not much for my own. Another thing I like about this committee is that–a plus point –the people were natural sarcastic comedians and that everybody appreciated everybody else]

Becoming Mid-term Angel

I am the most organized and systematic when it comes to studying. Normally, unless I’m racing against time, I would gather all sources for the exam, then select a few most important concepts into a summary. That’s how  it simply works.

I make summaries for myself, because that’s how I study. At first, I was nervous that I’d be called ‘smart-ass’ or ‘attention seeker’ or what else, if I shared my summary in my class’ groupchat. Turns out, the demand got high. Ever since I shared my first set of summaries (which was in second semester), many people kept asking/reminding me to publish the summary ASAP throughout mid-term week. Every. Single. Night. (even my best friend had been nagging me for it a month earlier, FYI. She's the best, ain't she?)

Personally, I am happy that my work could help others. I could have sold it and made money, but I would have felt burdened if anyone failed the test because of studying only from my summary (which rarely happened). Besides, it is my own pleasure to just freely, of my own good will, trying to help others. Really, it is one of those ‘best feelings’ you should experience at least once in a lifetime (several times would be better).