this is one of those days

Let me first start you off with this song. It's one of my Sugababes favorites.

I love it because it's the best Sugababes formation (Mutya-Keisha-Heidi), there's a bellydancer, a drag queen, and it talks about... you're right: accepting yourself, which stems from the idea of loving yourself.

I gained three kg (almost seven pounds) in the last vacation and people have been so kindly pointed out that it showed on my cheeks and tummy. I don't mind having a little fat ass, which I've been having lately, and I love it, but I don't need more on my tummy. I know have handlebars and back flab. BACK FLAB.

Maybe it has something to do with the engagement (my boyfriend proposed on August 17, right when Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono was making an Independence Day speech. More on that on a separate entry). Maybe I was happy returning home. Maybe I ate and ate and ate and my diet went down the drain. But one thing is certain: my stomach extended. And another one: I hate it.

If I were built with bigger bones, I wouldn't mind. If I were a woman with breasts, I wouldn't mind. But I am flat chest and so my belly is out there. Prominently.

So, on my birthday (I'm not going to say when or how old I am), my troupe director gave me a waist cincher, a corset. It makes me gasp, it makes my sleeping rather uncomfortable, it makes me take bathroom breaks after meals, but, it's a start. I've been wearing it intermittently, though. Three hours, four hours tops every day, far from the requirement of eight hours per day. Have I noticed anything different? Well, no. I mean, I've only been wearing it for about a week (here and there).

It is a start, and I kind of like it. I like how I'm forced to stand with my back straight and my stomach pulled in. I believe it is all muscle control. I'm engaging my core muscles whenever I'm wearing the corset, and engaging them is a form of exercise, so I'm exercising them while blogging this entry. Some even recommend wearing the corset while working out, but I find that inhibiting the moves.

And yes, I'm back to working out. I don't intend to look like Sylvester Stallone. Not even Madonna. But I can use a flatter stomach. And that's my goal. At least the corset I'm wearing is size Small.

Alex and I were talking about Cameron Diaz the other day. He told me that Cameron had just turned forty. It's so unfair, isn't it? But then again, she's worth millions of dollars, and most likely has her own personal trainer and can afford gym equipment and trips to health spas and skin clinics.

So what do we do?

Well, I'm starting to work my body with Jillian Michael's 30 Day Shred. This is the first day. I'm on Level 1. It's bearable, it's workable, and it's only thirty something minutes. Of course I put in more work out using resistance bands (they're so practical, more so than weights. The only problem is you can't really tell how heavy you're working on) and mixing it up with ATS® practices. Mostly to Slow Moves to decrease the heart rate and condition the muscles before cooling down.

One thing that I'm lacking is discipline. I just don't have it. This MFA program is really, really rigorous. Short stories, books, drafts to read and write critics about, then writing my own drafts for workshop submissions and the weekly shorties. These may not be rocket science or open heart surgery, but there are days when your brain just can't think of a word anymore and needs to go stupid, Patrick Star style. So, let's just see if I can have the discipline to complete Jillian Michaels' thirty day challenge. She recommends doing it five days per week.

Sigh.

cali

I can't believe I'm back here in California. I can't believe I'm back here in my apartment, listening to my neighbor upstairs playing guitar in the middle of the night (something that I quickly avenged by Skype-ing loudly with a friend). I can't believe school is starting tomorrow.

To be perfectly honest, I'm here for the dance. But don't tell my mom.

If I'm not too lazy (I still have the jet lag to blame), I'll be posting the pros and cons of being here, of pursuing a chunk of my dreams far away from home, far away from the comfort, safety, and certainty of a city I call home.

However, I have to admit that when I boarded the BART train from SFO to Rockridge a few nights ago, I didn't feel like a stranger.

Perhaps it was the ultimate surrender. Or, the jet lag.

Yeah, I think it was the jet lag.

the year 2011 in review

January 2011: Arriving in San Francisco, CA for 5 months of unknown future with EF

***

February 2011: Playing hooky from school and taking American Tribal Style® General Skills, Teacher Training 1 & 2 at FatChanceBellyDance® thus fulfilling a very, very large dream

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March 2011: Experiencing Spring Break and more rain in California (AKA: Nothing much happened but I just put something in here anyway to fill in the void. And I think the photo is pretty).

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April 2011: Receiving an acceptance letter to the Creative Writing - Fiction MFA program at St. Mary's College of California, thus fulfilling another large dream.

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May 2011: Playing hooky YET AGAIN by going to the most awesome dance festival on Earth: Tribal Fest!

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June 2011: EF Graduation and flying back to Indonesia

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July 2011: Being tattooed for the first time (AND DEFINITELY NOT THE LAST!)

and

July 2011: Teaching FatChanceBellyDance® format of American Tribal Style® for the first time

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August 2011: Flying back to California

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September 2011: Starting school

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October 2011: Performing with BlueDiamondsBellyDance, student troupe of FatChanceBellyDance®, at Tannourine Restaurant.

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November 2011: Performing with BlueDiamondsBellyDance again, this time with live music by Helm. Also at Tannourine.

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December 2011: Finishing the first semester at St. Mary's College and dancing at a surprise party for the proposal of a dance sister (Photo courtesy of Aaron Suedmeyer)

***

Well, so I guess it has been a pretty good year. I don't have a list of resolutions for 2012. All I know is that I'm just going to focus on dancing and writing.

And... Probably having flatter stomach.

See you next year and Happy New Year!

eulogy of sorts

"Are you happy now?" he asks.

"Why should I be happy? I just lost someone dear to me," I answer.

"Well, it's not like you did anything to help him. Financially, I mean."

"I was broke. I was piss poor. I was out of the country. What was I to do?"

"Liar. You were neither of those. You had spare money and you were back in Jakarta long enough to do something," he says. That shuts me up. That shuts me up as if someone had his fingers and palms around my neck and gripped it tightly, crushing the bones, sealing the air that fought its way in.

"Yes. So you're right. There. Are you happy now?" I ask him back.

"You know that I can never be happy. Unlike you."

"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it why did he have to die?"

"He had brain tumor. It's probably for the better," he replies as slews of profanities spew forth from my mouth like vomit.

"He was your first friend at junior high. He was your very first crush. He sat there in the library during the orientation, and he was the first person who extended his palm to you as he said his name and you accepted his hand and shyly told him yours," he says.

I nodded meekly.

"During all those hours of lectures and talks, you stared at his brown, sinewy thighs, amazed by the sight, by how strong they looked, how impressive they were, even without him trying to show them off," he says. "But you fell for another one."

"It wouldn't matter. He was straight. They both were. The other one is still straight. He got married a year ago," I balk.

"Yes. The other one. The short, yellow one, whose name echoes yours, who treated you like shit when he found out you liked him. But it didn't matter to you then to sleep with 'straight' people. And this one, your first friend at junior high, he never treated you badly. He always smiled to you, flashing his pearly whites to you."

"It won't matter anymore. He liked girls and he got one before he died. It can't matter anymore to him because now he's dead. It can't matter anymore to me because I have someone who loves me," I say, screaming.

"Are you sure?"

But silence swallows me once more and it looms over me, its dark presence hangs above me as layers of gray clouds copulate with one another in the morning skies of Berkeley.

***

RIP Temmy Haryono (23 October 1981 - 17 November 2011)

I'm sorry for being late

For not acknowledging the

Part that I needed you to know

For not wanting to let go

This blurry vividness

Like this half-eaten

Sandwich in front of me

Serves as a sliver of memory

If one sorry could take us back

To that day, that afternoon

I'd murmur ten thousand more

Until my lips and tongue went sore

White space and your

Grinning face

As we run and ride and race

cabin fever and other fun things

I was sneezing continuously during the Tannourine show and on the way home on the BART train. When I finally got home, I was too tired to do anything, so I just washed my face and didn't drink vitamin C. The next day, I was also sneezing a lot during class on on the train. Still, I didn't drink the vitamin C. The result? I couldn't get out of bed on Sunday and had to miss Dance Conditioning class. I was so sick that I had to miss the earlier class on Tuesday. I've been taking drugs like candies, but I'm feeling much better now.

There have been a few memorable conversations that I had this week, either with someone else or with my brain. And so, for the sake of not posting assignment-related entries, I give you the memorable conversations.

With a dance sister backstage at Tannourine:

She: I really enjoy your blog! How do you balance between dance and school?

Me: I forsake the cleanliness of my apartment (I said as a matter-of-factly)

She: Whoa. I'm very picky about my nest. I have to live in a clean environment.

Me: I really envy you (I really do)

The truth is, I purchased a vacuum cleaner from Amazon.com and it came almost a month ago and up to this day, I haven't taken it out of the box. Of course then I got sick. This morning, I felt energized that I finally did my laundry and cleaned my kitchen and put new sheets on, but I still haven't vacuumed my apartment.

With the same dance sister backstage at Tannourine:

She: Yuska, you know, I know how hard it is for you to take a compliment.

Me: (Nodding) I know... I'm working on it.

She: Well, let me tell you this: One of the signs of humbleness and humility is the ability to receive compliments gracefully. Just smile sincerely and say, "Thank you!"

Me: I will try.

After the show, I received compliments, including from her friends when I went to their table to say thanks for coming. My dance sister was sitting there and when she heard the compliments, she held my hand and said, "I told you so. And you're doing a great job in accepting them."

Thank you, Bethany.

With my classmates during class. Someone passed pieces of cakes from his birthday from the weekend. Our table was the last one in the room, so all the pieces were on our table.

My friend: Have some.

Me: I'm scared.

My friend: Of gaining weight? Come on.

Me: No. I'm scared that if I start, I won't stop. And that's going to be an embarrassing mess.

True story. About the messy, addicted to cake thing, I mean. I love desserts.

With a senior at Orinda BART Station:

Me: I don't get it why some people drink whenever they want to write something.

Him: Well, what do you do?

Me: I usually eat cake.

Him: Whoa. I gotta try that one day.

I suppose eating cake does make the piece turn out to be happier.

With myself when I was having really bad runny nose and looking at myself in the mirror in campus toilet.

Me: Damn, my boogers look like dangling icicles. Hmm. That's a good line to use for my book.

Yep, sometimes I amaze myself.

william faulkner's go down, moses

For Ms. Rosemary Graham's class, we were to read William Faulkner's Go Down, Moses. It was (finally) over and she asked us to explain why the novel ends with Delta Autumn and Go Down, Moses, and why Faulkner insisted that it should be a novel and not a collection of short stories.

Here's my thought.

***

To me, finishing this novel is like losing a chatty good friend: it’s relieving once you get to the end, but you’ll still miss your good friend. There is a noticeable transition of the tone and style of writing as we get to the end of Go Down, Moses.

What starts as a harsh, raw, cowboy adventure-like story, changes to deep and spiritual (in both the stereotypical African-American world as evident in Pantaloon in Black and the stereotypical Native American world in The Old People), and finally concludes in a mature, poignant, polished, sweet, and dare I say, feminine fashion.

Delta Autumn serves as the much-needed closure of the relationship among McCaslin (represented by Isaac), Edmonds (represented by Carothers), and Beauchamp (represented by the unnamed woman who bears the child of Roth Edmonds) as well as a warning (that seems to go unheeded) of overhunting and deforestation. Go Down, Moses explores the demise of Samuel Worsham Beauchamp and captures the sadness, almost like a curse, of the Beauchamps. It begins in a funny, rather comical way with Tennie Beauchamp and “Tomey’s Turl” (Was), then it becomes grim, though still somewhat sweet, with Lucas and Mollie Beauchamp (The Fire and the Hearth), finally it ends with Samuel’s death (Go Down, Moses). This sadness even transpires to Rider and Mannie (Pantaloon in Black), two people unrelated to the Beauchamps except for the fact that they live in Lucas’s cabin.

Nevertheless, no matter how much the tones change, there is always the familiarity in the sentences (the last sentence of the first chapter and the last sentence of the last chapter sound suspiciously the same). Indeed, it is the last two chapters that will make me forever miss Go Down, Moses. Then again, I can always reread it to remember the passion – and confusion – of William Faulkner.

***

I had to say that it was quite a challenge to read Faulkner because the campus book store was out of it so I had to purchase the Kindle version of it, and I couldn't make notes or read it on the bus or on the train (I don't have Kindle, so I download it to my laptop).

big guns

I'm a big fan of Xenomorphs (Aliens) and Yautjas (Predators). What can I say, I'm a big geek. Still, I don't watch Star Wars.

During the flight from Changi to SFO, one of the movie selections was Predators. I love the first Predator with Arnold Schwarzenegger (I'm actually a big fan of Schwarzenegger's, and probably I'm being a douchebag by saying that I still like his movies despite of his affair; I can't say the same thing about Mel Gibson, though) and Predator 2 is also one of my favorites in my limited repertoire of extraterrestrial gore movies.

However, as I'm watching Predators, I can't help but wonder why some people think it's a good sequel, like Aliens to Alien. Some people even went as far as saying that Predator 2 was shitty.

This entry won't be a review; it's going to be a rant (AND IT CONTAINS SPOILERS!).

Rant #1: The score. It doesn't mix with the scenes. I hear the influence of not only Predator and Predator 2 music scores, but also from the Alien Saga. Predators' score is grand and is meant for grandiose long and wide, impressive, dramatic shots - shots that aren't found in Predators.

Rant #2: Adrien Brody. He is boring, monotonous, and completely lacks the personality that Schwarzenegger or Danny Glover showed in Predator and Predator 2 respectively. I thought I almost killed myself from boredom whenever Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne steps onto the screen on Dark Knight, but Royce (Brody's character in Predators) made me an inch closer to actually committing suicide.

Rant #3: The cast. Oh geez. One of them is actually an SMC graduate. The dark, handsome one, with the unpronounceable name.

Rant #4: The pace of the movie. I know the need to build up the suspense by showing absolutely nothing on screen, but at the movie's rate, it was mind-numbing.

Rant #5: The f-word and the tough talk. They just aren't believable enough, just like the cast.

Rant #6: The writing. (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER) One alpha-male and the only female came out as the survivors. Where's the twist in that? In Predator, everyone was equally strong and equally smart.

I found Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem completely unbearable (with all due respect to Milla Jovovich, I don't think Paul WS Anderson can either write or direct movies) and Alien vs. Predator was mildly tolerable.

Okay. Rant over. Now I can't believe that the nearest Boost Mobile shop is closed permanently. I think that means I have to go back to using MetroPCS. I hope I can get my number again.

i take that back

Remember when I said I didn't want to have more tattoos?

Well, I take that back. Ha! Talk about mental instability.

Contrary to what people say (that the pain of getting inked is addictive), it is actually not the pain, but the art and the end result that have made me yearn for more permanent body adornment. Only this time, I'm thinking of getting something smaller and on a less painful place.

I'm thinking of getting a rose... I still have to do my Bast head and Bell Jar, though. The Bell Jar is small while Bast is rather big... I guess I have to prioritize.

That being said, it is already two weeks since I got inked and my tattoo is still healing. It's not scabbing but it's been flaky and really itchy.

I'm going to dance this Sunday and I'll be wearing my new, backless costumes to really show off my tattoo.

the essence of time

It won't be like this forever.

When I was in the car with Danang, something led us to talk about how we used to be twenty years ago. I remembered talking to my elementary school friends during the break about how it would've been in the year 2000: we'd have been teenagers, that's for sure, but most importantly, there would've been hovering cars, robots, and advanced technology.

It's year 2011 now and from my point of view, we are advancing in some fields, and yet destroying ourselves in many.

Then again, I'm not here to blog about the world in general, so I digress. I'm here to blog about the many moments of my life. After all, I'm *coughing hysterically* years old, so that means I have enough things to cherish, ponder about, and perhaps regret, although a bit. I know, when it comes to regret, even the bad things I've done or have had, have contributed to who/what/where I am right now. However, I can't lie that I do have some regrets of my own.

I remember measuring my height and comparing it with my parents. I used to be shorter than Mom, then I outgrew her and was shorter than Dad, then I outgrew both of them.

I remember painting my whole body with red paint (the kind of paint to use on walls) and my Mom had to scrub my skin so hard with turpentine. I cried the whole time.

I remember crying and being hugged by Mom so tight after an awful Sunday mass where the priest said that homosexuals would go to hell.

I remember going home after a hell trip in England (it was a homestay program and I went without Mom. I was bullied during the whole two weeks, including by my own fellow Indonesians) when I was twelve years old. I was ill for the last seven days and almost got hit by one of London's black taxis. In an assignment, I was asked how I would describe the best way to die (again, I was twelve years old) and I wrote: dying while being hugged by a loved one. In the car on the way home from the airport, Mom cradled my feverish body. I cried silently.

I remember losing a kitten I just met. A very, very peculiar kitten: black and white, with a face that resembled another cat I had lost before that. I called the first cat I had lost Mimi, and because of the new kitten's resemblance to the first Mimi, I also called the new kitten Mimi. Mimi II was so shy but I could finally convince her to come from time to time to eat. One night, I saw Mimi II perched on top of our brick fence. When I approached her, she was so passive, which was very much unlike our previous encounters. I then realized she was very ill. She died in my arms in less than an hour. She had just been sitting there on the brick wall. If she had been that ill, how did she get up there? Had she been waiting for me? I cried violently that night. It was two days before Christmas eve. At church, during the Christmas eve mass, I cried again. Later I found out that Mimi means bitter in Hebrew.

It seems like all my life, I've been crying a lot. Perhaps it's true, and the tears that I last shed won't be the last. It seems like I remember all the negative events in my life - all the events that make me cry. That's true, but that doesn't make me a sad or negative person. I love life. It's just that I have received so much joy and happiness, that I've lost track and gave up counting my blessings long ago. Meanwhile, I can still count the heartbreaks and the laments.

I'm keeping these sadness close to my heart, to remind me that even the smallest drop of joy can ease the suffering of being human, of knowing that someday, time will outrun me, like I've outgrown my parents.

Although I know that someday, if I'm good, I'll die the way I want, have true friends who will wait for me until their dying breaths and let me do the same unconditionally.

It may not be like this forever. But I'm ready to cry, and hopefully ready to move on afterwards.

the strolling dancer

It was a hot day, as if Denpasar was under a giant magnifying glass that multiplied the sun's rays exponentially. My boyfriend and I drove out of the house to take care of his work. The AC in the car was blowing cool air, surrounding us in some sort of cooling cocoon that protected us from the outside heat. On the way out, we saw someone walking.

"Isn't that a traditional artist?" my boyfriend asked. The true meaning of "artist" has somehow lost its gritty and unglamorous definition. Justin Bieber is an artist. Those who has one hit song and can jet around the world is an artist.

I looked at the person walking outside our car. He was wearing a traditional Javanese suit from head to toe. The traditional suit is, indeed, a suit: a shirt, a jacket, a sarong draped around the hips covering the lower body all the way to the ankle, a headdress called blangkon (blung-kohn), and traditional slippers. Anyone who could walk under the heat in that costume really earned my respect.

What amazed me even more was the fact that he wore full-blown make-up (the way traditional Javanese artists do when performing). The color of his decorated facial skin contrasted the worn-out and sun-burnt skin on his hands that poked out of the long sleeves of his jacket. His make-up could hide his real age, but you could tell the things he'd gone through by looking at his wrinkly hands that clutched a wooden box.

"Is that a Balinese suit?" I asked my boyfriend, unsure of my own knowledge.

"No. That's Javanese," he replied.

"What's a Javanese traditional artist doing in Bali?" I asked again. I honestly didn't know. Bali is rich with its own art, culture and tradition. It already has many dances. These dances are one of the reasons why people flock to the island. Of course, nowadays it's almost about the sun, sand, surf, and sex (and tattoo), but people still ask to see shows of Kecak and Barong dances. It just baffled me that a Javanese artist would go against the current. To me, he looked like fish out of water, like he didn't belong.

My boyfriend shrugged.

"Does he get any audience?"

My boyfriend shrugged again.

I got lost in my own train of thoughts. I could identify myself with him, the strolling dancer. We are both males, we wear make-up and costume. When I had gigs in places where I had to change and do my make-up in the toilet or had to dance in front of indifferent crowd or with inadequate sound system, I bitched a lot. This strolling dancer was walking in his full regalia, under the sun, on stony paths (literally and perhaps figuratively), carrying his own music. I mean, imagine walking on a hot, rough surface, wearing thin slippers.

My mouth clamped shut for a while. Then my boyfriend said, "We should've given him a lift."

I felt pity for a split second but replied, "Hmm... well, he could be a strolling dancer carrying a stereo set inside his wooden box... Or, he could also be a loon with knives and weapons inside that box."

My boyfriend looked at me. "Wow, you've become as paranoid as Americans," was his reply.

I cringed.

I don't want to be that heartless. I don't want to be like those who took naked pictures of me spread-eagled for the purpose of making sure I didn't carry anything dangerous on the plane. I don't want to be like the obnoxiously rude immigrant officers, who were obviously of Chinese descendants, at SFO. I don't want to be like the people of Westboro Baptist Church, or like Mel Gibson. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be like Osama bin Laden either, but you get the point.

Later on, as I'm writing this entry, another thought ran across my mind. Bali has a significant portion of Javanese people living here. Those people may benefit from the strolling dancer's artistry.

I pray, for his sake and mine, that his walk under today's scorching sun was not unfruitful, and that his walk was a walk, tired but relentless, a determined walk and not a wandering.

even heroes need holidays

And I'm not a hero! So I'm entitled to more holidays!

I arrived in Jakarta on 21 June 2011 and flew to Bali on the 27th.

On the first day of my arrival in Bali, my boyfriend and I went to La Ota for some porridge - that's how we always start my trip in Bali. Then we headed to Bali Ink to set up an appointment for my first (and most probably my last) tattoo. How do I know it's going to be my last? Well, when I was in San Francisco, suddenly Mom sent me an SMS message telling me that she had heard of my plan to get a tattoo. She pleaded (basically told me) to not get one. I replied to her that I'd discuss the plan when I got home.

On the eve of the flight to Bali as I was packing my suitcase, this conversation ensued.

"Mom, why can't I have a tattoo? Are you concerned about the cleanliness and hygiene of the place?"

"Yes, I'm worried about that," she said.

"But they have clean and new needles and stuff. They'll show you the new needles, just like they do at the facialist," I replied, referring to the dermatologist where we usually go to. Then I realized I had made a weak preposition, and so I added, "Or like the clinics and hospitals where they always have new needles and sterilized equipment."

I showed her the designs: the cats, the bell jar, the mandala, and finally the peacock feather at the back of the neck.

"That one is pretty," she said, pointing at the peacock feather.

"It is! And I want it."

"Why can't you have it for a temporary tattoo? And anyway, it will hurt, won't it?"

"Yes! But that's the essence of getting a tattoo: a painful commitment for a thing of beauty that will last forever!" actually as I was saying this, I was involuntarily reminded about the pain that I'd have to endure (around 90 minutes - the front-desk person at Bali Ink said). I think I flinched a bit.

"This one," I said, pointing at the bell jar design, "I made a promise to myself that if I were accepted at a school I wanted, I'd get it." The bell jar design was inspired by Sylvia Plath's one and only novel.

"Well, okay... but you have to choose. I want you to only get one tattoo. That's it!"

"One... full body?"

"No, just one tattoo. And I prefer you get the smallest," she sternly said.

"Gosh. How did you find out I was getting tattoos anyway?" I asked. I had remained silent about the whole thing. My plan was to silently get my tattoos done and then came home with them.

"I read about them," she replied with her usual poker face.

"From where?"

"The newspapers..." she replied. I almost giggled but also maintained a serious air - I was in the middle of a business proposal, not unlike when I asked for an Acer Ferrari laptop seven years ago.

"Oh, well. I'll get the peacock, then" I said decidedly.

And here I am, in Bali, anxiously waiting for two more days and reading about tattoo aftercare.

Sigh.

things i'll miss and won't miss

I'll miss:

1. My friends and teachers at EF school.
2. The MUNI (and the relatively convenient and fast rides).
3. The ClipperCard (and its convenience).
4. Windows and sunlight that goes through it and illuminates my room.
5. The cool air that deletes the need to install air conditioner.
6. Chinese Pancake with Rice that I purchase every weekend after dance conditioning class from a nearby Chinese restaurant.
7. The relative absence of noise from the streets outside.
8. People in the hostel and at the school that I can talk about.
9. The big city air and feeling and walking down UN Square to the BART station through the stalls selling knick-knacks and foods I never bought.
10. The proximity to FatChanceBellyDance studio.
11. RAs at the hostel.
12. Restaurants at the Fisherman's Wharf.

I won't miss:

1. The abundance of poo (hopefully excreted by dogs) on the streets.
2. Noisy bitches (boys and girls - mostly French speakers and Arabs) in the hostel and at school.
3. Liplocking students - minors or otherwise.
4. Said bitches who think they're cool either by talking so loud and socializing with many people or by being aloof and silent.
5. Seeing dirty syringes and condoms on the pavement.
6. The homeless people (although they are an interesting bunch of people).
7. Unfriendly hostel staff.

awards, goodbyes, little miss sunshine, and fisherman's wharf

There will be times when I gloat, and no matter how often those moments appear, I never seem to be able to show off my academic intelligence.

This is the first time.

Yes, yours truly here is the recipient of the Award for Academic Excellence for being a student with A+ average. You'd better believe it. I didn't believe it myself but then I opened my score card and there was that A+, neatly printed on the paper. A miracle. What's next? A cure for AIDS?

That wasn't the only award I received, though. On Memorial Day's BBQ Party at Mr. Stephen's, I also earned a gag award that said "Most Original and Only Bellydancer". I love that award so, so much, and keep it close to my heart.

I know I'm backtracking in this entry, but please bear with me as I'm going to backtrack once more.

The day before graduation day (here's the timeline: graduation day was on Friday, June 3; Memorial Day BBQ was on Monday, May 30) - Thursday, June 2, after a nice lunch at Grande Kamekyo across EF's Fisherman's Wharf, Leo, Rex, and I decided to walk to the beach. It was a nice, sunny day, although the wind was cold. And so we chatted.

"I've been here the longest," Rex said with a cigarette wedged between his fingers.

"How long?" I asked.

"Fifteen months."

I gasped. "Fifteen months?"

He nodded. "I started in Oakland. They didn't have UP (University Preparation - language drills, application assistance, gmat/gre/toefl preparation, truckloads of books enough to give us hernia) program then, but I had paid, so they put me in the AY (Academic Year [General English] - mostly fun, games, light grammar, virtually no books). I was in AY for 6 months, then I got into UP for another nine months."

"How was it?"

"Well, at first, I couldn't even say a word in English. The first day, I didn't even smoke because I didn't have my lighter with me and I didn't know how to ask for fire. After it became unbearable, I just asked the other students, 'May I have fire?'"

"But that's great! I mean, it's also common to ask for 'fire' when you want to light up a cigarette," I said.

"Yeah, but the other students were also as stupid as I was and they didn't know what I meant. It took us a while," he laughed endearingly.

I'd heard the same thing from my friends: Najla (an Arab), Andrey (Russian), and Leo as well. They had benefited a lot from staying in the USA and just talk. There is a huge improvement between when I first met Andrey and Leo and now when I'm talking to them.

On Friday, just before all of us went to Tiernan's for the graduation ceremony (it was dreary outside and our principal said that the weather didn't permit us to hold the event on the beach), we watched the conclusion of Little Miss Sunshine in Lauren's class. I cried a bit while watching it, I didn't cry at all during the graduation ceremony, so it was reasonable when I burst into tears in the middle of the night as I watched Leo's videos featuring collage of the students' photos.

And so, what else could I do but write a poem?

fisherman's wharf

there is always the pain of meeting someone,

and getting to know that someone for the briefest moment,

but it feels like it's been a lifetime.

and then you have to say goodbye.

this pain;

it rips open my chest and crushes my heart.

this pain;

it will always be there.

but I have the memories to remind me

of the magical moments of friendship.

five damn months

and the pain when I said,

"what the hell am I doing here?"

are gone.

that pain disappears.

but this pain remains.

and I hope

not even senility

nor dementia

nor all force or disease on Earth

will wipe away the memory

that feeds this pain.

for I know I can take it.

I can live with it.

but I sure as hell

can't live without the memories

of my friends

of the classes and the books

of the bus rides and car lifts

of the here and now

of fisherman's wharf.

and so I cry

as if each choke

each tear

could ease my suffering.

and yet I smile

for it is not a suffering

but a privilege

an honor

of sharing lessons

of learning and teaching

of murmuring and wailing

of walking down the corridors

of fisherman's wharf.

the importance of war

This is an opinion piece for American History & Culture class. I wrote this during a bus transit in Martinez on my way to Santa Rosa last Wednesday. I was a bit disoriented while doing it, but I guessed it turned out okay.

***

I saw James Cameron’s Avatar on DVD last night. Last year, when it was being played at theatres in my hometown, I went to see it not once, not twice, not three times, but six times: three times in 3D, the rest in 2D. When I watched it last year, I was captivated by the visuals, the film-making technology, and the language the Na’vi (the indigenous people of the Pandora) spoke, and of course, Sigourney Weaver (I just love her in all her movies, especially the Alien saga).

Last night, however, I looked at the movie in another perspective: the war. There was a big battle between the humans and the Na’vi. The humans wanted to colonize Pandora and take very valuable resource aptly called the Unobtanium. The Na’vi could not care less about this Unobtanium, as they were more interested in preserving their tradition, the nature, and their world. Battle ensued, a great, big, battle. The humans had the more advanced technology, while the Na’vi fought with bows and arrows. The Na’vi won (it’s a Hollywood movie) and the humans were forced to return to Earth. There were numerous casualties, but like any wars, it did not matter.

Or did it?

Sylvia Plath wrote that she couldn’t comprehend killing another human being, a potential “friend”, just because he or she is being seen as an “enemy”. Homicide must always be the last resort. The concept of Utopia is a mere fantasy, at least so far, therefore conflicts on any level will occur. So the final question is: is there a way to justify war? Yes, there is – when it is self-defense.

Then again, self-defense is a subjective and biased term.

***

And then, as I was searching for a perfect picture to accompany this entry, I thought, "Self-defense may be subjective and biased, but Sam Worthington sure looks hotter as a a Na'vi than as a human.

What do you think?

On a side note, this blog is becoming so filled with images of half-nude guys that I'm seriously considering of placing it under Blogger's NSFW section so I can fill it up with even more daring pictures of male humans... You know, those who put the "men" in "specimen". Heh heh... *pervy laughter*

house hunting (part 2)

The story continues.

I just went home from house hunting this morning. I forfeit Dance Conditioning class at FCBD just to go to North Berkeley to a shoddy cluster of apartments in a quiet neighborhood. The affordable units didn't pique my interest. The only good thing about going there was that in one unit, there was a house cat who (yes, I use "who" to describe animals that familiarize themselves with me) stood to attention - the cat was curling on a stool - when I came in. So I quickly gave the cat some strokes and pets and the cat nuzzled me back in return.

How I miss my cats back home.

Yesterday, I went to Orinda to see a house. Apparently, Orinda is very different from San Francisco in a number of ways: one of them being bus shelters with no digital sign of when the next bus is coming. To make matters worse, I was late. So the very nice landlord decided to pick me up.

There I was, being driven in a black Porsche to a grand, luxurious house with plush carpeting all over, state-of-the-art kitchen, high-speed internet, furniture, and exotic bathroom (for USD 1275, no less). It was beautiful all over, even the garage had a great view of the clearing and bits of the forest down below. It was so quiet that I could hear the howling of the wind as the long blades of grass swayed and bent under the strength of the air.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to ask my parents to finance the apartment. And anyway, it was so far from the BART station. The bus came every 30 minutes or so (and I thought waiting for the 47 Muni here - coming every 5 to 10 minutes - was an unnerving task) and I'd have to walk uphill for about 2 miles from the bus stop to the house.

The landlord dropped me off at the BART station. He was such a nice person.

"Do you often do this to your potential renters?" I asked.

"No, my potential clients have cars," he said, not cynically, but with warmth. There I was, a foreign graduate-student-to-be, carless, unable to ride the bicycle, wanting to rent a house in a non-walking distance.

We chatted long in the car in front of the BART's station entrance. I could smell his sweet and musky smell of cologne. There was something in the signature scent of successful, proud, confident older gentlemen that always seemed to sexually arouse me. The landlord was about 60 years old, and he was not my type, but he was so cerebral and visceral at the same time. I had intended to stay in the car for only 10 minutes, as I tried to get back to San Francisco and catch the FCBD dance class, but we ended up talking for more than an hour.

"Do you often see movies?" I asked again when we passed the houses on the way down hill.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"These houses remind me so much of those from Stepford Wives," I said. He laughed.

"Yes. Here, people seem to go back to the greens, choosing to have a secluded house," was his answer. "You know, when you e-mailed me and said you were from Indonesia, I thought you were a conman."

"What? Why so?" I was intrigued.

"Well, you called me and you didn't have an accent. I often go overseas as I have offices in several parts of the world including Asia, but everyone I met had an accent, but you... You sound like a regular American."

"Why, thank you. I started learning English when I was 4 years old. I used to have a perfect British accent but I lost it to Hollywood," I said, inciting his laughter. "My English teacher said that if you learned English after sixteen, you'll retain your original accent, no matter how hard you work."

"That's true. I can distinguish the accents of people from parts of the US, I know how French people sound when they're speaking English..."

"Oui, zei talk like zees..." I said, imitating the Francophones, and he laughed again.

"Yes, they do talk like that. But you sound like you came from Chicago."

"I guess now I kind of know the reason why most landlords from Craigslist didn't reply to my e-mail," I said with a sighed. I sent and called at least 20 resident managers and none of them replied my e-mail. Big apartments, small apartments... Almost nada. "Maybe when I said I was from Indonesia, they thought of jihadis and terrorists."

"Well, this is a tumultuous time," he answered sympathetically. I just nodded.

The conversation went on. At first I kept glancing at the digital clock on the middle dashboard, but after a while, I didn't mind. This gentleman showed me a lot of insight on living abroad, on living in Orinda at his house, on life in general. He poured his experience into me, and I, a glass, only about 1/8 full, gladly accepted his generous, rich liquid.

As I bid him farewell and closed the door of his black Porsche, thoughts ran in my mind, criss-crossing like vehicles on a busy intersection. I was happy, though - my confidence in being a potential renter was restored. And so, bubbly, I walked to the platform to wait for my train that would take me back to San Francisco.

a day around town

It always amazes me that by chance, I get to see Marvel movies. I sat through dastardly boring hours of Iron Man and Ghost Rider, cringed at Elektra's anticlimax ending, and decided to stop Daredevil DVD on the thirtieth minute. Marvel movies have that typical mind-blowing setting and effects but completely shallow story line with no character building. And the enemies are just too easy to defeat.

That is the case with Thor. Even with prime stars like Natalie Portman, Stellan Skarsgaard, Anthony Hopkins, and poor, poor Rene Ruso (her character is even less significant than Winona Ryder's in Star Trek), the movie sucked. It is an action movie, I know, but it is just... boring. Even the 3D effects didn't help. The only time my eyes were wide open was when Thor and one other guy showed some skin. Yum. But the guy who plays Thor looks like he'll do better modelling skimpy underwear.

However, I very much enjoyed my time with my friends here. The four of us, Leo & Gunwoo (two Korean guys), Wei Ni (Taiwanese girl), and I ventured out first to Cheesecake Factory to have a really late lunch. Then Leo drove us to a distant land called Daly City where we met Yoomin and his girlfriend Lorene (both Koreans) and John (Taiwanese) to watch Thor. It was already 9.30 PM when we got out of the theater and drove to a Korean restaurant called Coco Ban near the hostel for supper. I indulged, and I didn't mind, because I enjoyed being with them.

Honestly, I miss going out with my friends back in Jakarta. I miss driving at nights when the flickering colorful lights cover the ugliness of the city. I miss the blaringly loud music and the laughter and the ability of speaking in Indonesian, the way my Korean friends talked to each other and to the hunky waiter at Coco Ban. I miss having to count my money and not spending it easily.

Still, today has been very fruitful. I have friends to laugh with.

John sat next to me at Coco Ban. He just got back from the dentist, and in the USA, a trip to the dentist costs a fortune. So we talked a bit while he ate his rice cake soup and I my vegetarian fried noodle.

"When are you going back to Taiwan?"

"June. For a month. I am sort of avoiding to join the military," he answered.

"Even when you're going to undergraduate school here, you have to go join the military service?"

"Yes. Even if you're gone for more than ten years, when you go back, the government will ignore the fact that you've been gone, and you'll still have to be drafted."

"Will you go to war?" I asked with a rather nervous pitch.

"Possibly."

I looked at him, at his smooth, boyish skin and his hair the color of dyed copper. He wanted to cut his hair Korean style, he said, but didn't want Americans to go near it, so he let it grow long; his bangs were covering his eyes. He's only 18 years old, nearly a decade younger than I am. He has his life ahead of him. I cringed at the thought of war.

I know how wars change people. There are homeless people in the area where I live in San Francisco. One of our classmates made a research and he found out that a portion of the homeless people were Vietnam veterans who returned to the USA with damaged mental conditions. The US Government decided to cut back funding to mental institutions some years ago. When the asylums closed down, the patients couldn't find anywhere else to live but the streets. These were the people who fought for the USA. These were the veterans who had to kill to live and suffered because of the guilt.

Under the somewhat dim lights of the restaurant, I saw Leo sitting across the table. He had served in the military for two years, but he didn't have to go to war. He didn't have to lose much of his innocence in glorified violence. I glanced back at John who was slurping his soup. He could only eat soft food, at least for the time being, until his teeth recovered.

"When is your next appointment with the dentist?" I asked.

"Monday. I spent USD 1,800 today."

My eyes were wide open, shocked to hear the staggering amount of money he had to pay for one visit.

"This soup is just rice with water," he complained.

"Like porridge," I agreed.

"I eat like a homeless person."

"No, John, a homeless person can do better," I said, and he laughed so hard that I started giggling.

The wind blew with so much gusto that night that it almost threw me off balance as we walked back to Leo's car. Even with a full stomach, I could feel the bitter cold seeping under my skin and frosting my tropical bones. I wondered if those homeless people I saw sleeping on the streets covered with layers of cloths were warmer than I was.

I wondered if I were ever going to be homeless, wandering around with nowhere to go. No soil to root my feet in. No roof to cover my head with.