Too late

Maybe in another life, when or if we see each other again, I’ll take you fishing at night. By that time, we will have nothing to worry about. I’ll pack your cigars, I’ll bring mine along and we’ll be off sailing before you know it. Under the wide night sky, as you know I sneak in three bottles of Merlot. We’ll be too drunk to catch a fish, I will be vast asleep on your shoulder.

In another life, if we ever see each other again.

The Audre Lodre Questionnaire to Oneself

I love being under the sun, i boasted around to people that sun will make you happy (biologically). It raises up your serotonin which will lower your cortisol. In sort, it will lower your stress hormones. So scientifically, sun will make you happy.

I guess being under the sun will only make you happy if you’re not under deadline, you’re in Bali, you passed college, you are just at peace with all your shit in life, or probably the sun is warm enough for you to bathe around. All in all, stress is stressful. You either get your things done or just chill and sunbathe. I did both, chill and sunbathe because life is far from done when you’re 20. It’s about to begin. At least you’re starting the rhythm with the best tune, mine has always been Walt Grace’s Submarine Tests, January 1967, with the best people, mine is myself cause i go solo and love myself too damn much to waste time to care about dinner invitation (no dinner is fine…..but always pick breakfast over dinner), and in a marvelous place, you see place for me is not “where your heart is” thing. A place matters. Each year I pick places i will go to that year with my own penny.

I was fishing yesterday night. It was a bad time to catch fish because the moon is so damn lit that the ocean gleamed in the dark. We could see each other’s faces so clearly even tho it’s almost midnight. We ran off to the sea at 3 pm at noon. It was my first time fishing. I went out with my mom and dad. Dad was dead bored with the idea of fishing cause he said he had done it long time ago. Otherwise boy mom was as thrilled as i was. She packed up cakes for the fishermen who brought us eventho i said don’t come, “mom, you see if the ship sinks tomorrow somehow if it catches storm, it’s just me who’s gonna die so it’s easier for me to think since i don’t have to save you when i swim”. You see, dead number in ship accident rises when people start to help other people. If only jack did not help rose at the time titanic happened, we would not have that great ending of such love story. Probably what happened was that Rose would leave Jack for her ex fiance after knowing that Jack was a selfish bastard. But yeah Jack was not a selfish bastard and in reality, love does exist.

What are the words you do not have yet?

It’s my last night living here. Three and a half years of living in a three by five room with a bathroom and no aircon. I am moving to an apartment room no. 17 that I found in a rainy day. With a window and my life is complete. I wonder why I am still keeping the dead bucket of white roses. The flowers are dead and there is no use to keep them but I keep the bucket with me anyway with other mementos that I have collected these past few years. I have this list of questions that I have to ask myself over and over again I remember one of the question goes like this: what word you do not have?

I think I do not have a word to describe the feeling when you are just too sad recognizing things are falling apart somewhere in your life. That you have this knowledge that something is collapsing and you have no idea how to fix it. Is there any word for that? Good God I wish I can only live with one suitcase. Really, although I am having four boxes to move tomorrow, I can live only with my laptop, and a suitcase of basic items and my wallet.

A word that i still do not have is for feeling of questioning your reality when the memories you have in your mind seem like blurry collection of old films you have seen somewhere in your life time. I do not have any word for that. Your mind keeps on having certain memories yet you suspect your memory has been lying to you all these time. Like that memory you had of one’s smiling to you or when one came with a big white white roses, or when one came to you with mix tape of sad songs. I feel like my brain tricks me. That probably somehow, these memories are not real. It’s a sad reality that I formed with my own mind and my own logic with own perception of reality. That it never happened.

I learned to accept that these never happened. So I threw away the dead bucket of white roses full of brain tricks a month later.

What do you need to say?

One day she knew that he was gone. She just knew it, this time there were no turning back. He decided to leave. Just about the right time when she was starting her life. He decided that she was not enough so he left. 

She was standing with one of her legs fell off somewhere and with no string to hold on to. She could see his back turned away and something invisible cracked broken into pieces faraway yet close enough to hear the sound. “Oh dear Lord not now,” she screamed, “don’t like…go now, you cannot go now I am too scared to face the world with only one leg and no one to hold on to.”

If she could, she would slap him in the face and scream, “stay, please. This time stay with me.” She could not. They were too similar, too fucked up, too strict, just you know..they didn’t fit. 

Knowing that he left, she ran. She ran and ran and ran till her feet went numb to feel the excruciating pain it caused from running too long, too far, too tired. She remembered when he turned away, he was not the person she used to know. All the mad dreams, with that mad eyes were no longer there.  Everything else evolved, yet she pictured him that way all the time. 

You see, she would always wish him well. On the nature of all daylight and night time, she would always wish him well. At night she would pray, ” as lonely as this road takes us, as faraway as it will lead us, and as hard as it will throw rocks to our tired and broken bodies, i wish i wish to God that it carries us like winners, marches us like true sons of All the Gods in the world. That all this hardship, hates, fear, and negation from people we know, people we love, people we don’t know make us wiser. That i wish if we ever meet again, you’re winning all your battles and that I am winning all mine.”

The making of my father

We arrived a little over noon. The sun hangs low as people chat around to have gatherings. This is my third time being here. Eight years ago this small village behind the vast mountain existed just like what i see today. It does not change a bit. Ah i know, i seek for change when i do not believe on transformation of human being. People, to me, stay the same. However i believe cities should have progressive development. This one does not have any particular difference from all those years. What a waste! Eight fucking years and nothing changes. I saw kids playing by the river that was dirtier than what it had been. My heart sinks. How could my father do it? 

The other day i broke my father’s heart. His heart broke yesterday in front of my eyes I let it broken. I don’t understand why it happened, all i knew was a minute later he was dissapointed. So you see, i think being alone for almost 4 years eats the part of my brain to live with my family. Usually i have control on having my alone time after a day of socializing. Now i can’t. My parents don’t understand there is such thing as introversion. They love talking and having people around the clock. Living faraway from home let me be in control with when to talk and when to let the phone buzz without answering. Now once i am home, i have no control of that. It’s always meeting people and socializing, and talking that i start to feel exhausted. I don’t have my time to be alone with my thoughts, to arrange the day, to just be with myself. Thus yesterday i cracked, so i said rude things to my father that i did not mean it. I was just tired. 

My father is an amazing person. Opposite from my introversion, he is the life of a party. People love him and he loves people. He would love to host a complete stranger he met at an airport or he sat next to some days just for the sake of loving having people around. Today i arrived at my father hometown in the eastern part of Indonesia. He was one of the successful kid who dare to go out from his small village to roam away. I am stunned by his courage. You see, my grand father could not read. He taught people to read Quran yet he encouraged my father and his brothers to go to school. So every kid of my grandpa went to school and did ok. My dad, you see, he loves his small hometown where he had his buffalos, catched fish, and went to school when he was a kid. How could someone in poverty dreamed that big? My dad, he pushed himself further, he dreamed and dreamed. Once when i was just a kid he told me to dream big. He said it would cost nothing to dream. So dream on he’d say when he tucked me to bed. 

He pursued his career in research for buffalo. He is one of the prominent buffalo expert in the country. He does what he loves the most and today i am here to go fishing near Tambora the first thing tomorrow. Couple years ago when I was a 6 or 7, my brother went on fishing. The storm came that afternoon as the tried to catch some fish. Boy was it storming. It became one of the greatest story of my brother’s . Anyway, so my dad went to school. Before he even snatched his bachelor degree, both of his parents died. He said, “when I heard that your grandma passed away, i was about to do an exam. Then a telegram came from home saying ‘your mama died today’. I stopped and cried for a while. I thought it was no use to be sad, she passed away already. What can i use my sadness for? So I went on with life, did my exam, and went home a week later”. He found his father was weak after her mother’s passing so he said that he needed to get back to school because it was about to start soon, “if you happen to pass away too, i am very sorry if I have done wrong things during my life”. My grandpa nodded and let him go. One year later he passed away. 

My father went to life the harsh way. Ways that i never go through. When we passed a village 200km from his hometown he told me once he walked from his house to this village 4 days 4 nights to carry buffalos. How could you walk 200km? I cannot fathom the thought of walking under this sun. Eastern indonesia has the driest humidity compared to any place in the country. So when the sun shines, it burns. In the old days, water was luxury. So alone that 200km, one cannot find water sources easily like today. That is only one story of my fathers. 

I remember one day my father watched Laskar Pelangi. He cried his guts out remembering all things he went through in life as a kid. Boy was he tired. He cried and cried after the movie ended. He said it reminded him of his struggle in poverty and him making way out of it. How could he do it?

I started to think about how i broke his heart last night. About not being grateful i still have him around to support me even though I have my bachelor degree, about not being there when my parents need me the most, about all the struggle my father did (my mother came from a well off family but without her mother around so the struggle was different). How could he make it? How could one made it so far?

Feb 27, 2017. Repeat.

I am sitting in a bar. Alone. This bar is one of those places to fall in love in this city. Why though? I fret so many words about love if I do not believe there is any love worth for myself. I decided to hit the bar this time by myself. Monday night. Drinking alone. Drink wine alone and emphasise on the act as if as if the act is not allowed. 

Weird thing happened today. Irresistable text came asking like this, “are you stressed out lately? You looked kinda tired.” And then BOOM your whole guard came down. I was not ready to received that. In fact I was mad with myself when i received that. Nobody should know your shit in life. That’s my number 1 rule. 

Nope the answer is nope. Perhaps i am actually tired. One says ” life, you see just live it just let it lay.” Let it takes you to whatever end that you are seeking. On love? Love is complex. 

And then i as i walked crossing the street in the middle of the night, i started to form this theory. I thought why can’t you just love someone too much? I have always been blamed to love someone too much. Why do you always have to protect yourself? Come on, life is to short to play all the game of being alone or to reject something beautiful just for the sake of the risk that you would get. 

You see, i work a whole lot of time calculating risk, mitigating them and valuing something at risk. I calculate risk everytime. You say you’d go bullish. Bullshit! You are never bullish in love. You’re chicken. You stop valuing things at risk in love you take a step back and run over and over again. 

In finance, you diversify your risks into wide array of instrument. Thus being accumulated, your risk appetite is achieved and controlled. Now love is different. You cannot love everyone or many people. You are capable in loving only one person in your goddamn sad life. Hence there is no way to diversify. In love, you don’t diversify. You compromise, you settle down for one love. That is too high risk for someone to take. It is just risky. That’s why you have to guard yourself with protection with amo, bomb, and shield just to give yourself safety. There you either fall in love in safety mode or just take steps aback and runaway from it. 

My drink has not finished. I will depart tomorrow. God I hate this city when i am not in love. It’s just a sad sad place to live. 

Egotistical views of the world

To have the power of knowing is the greatest thing human can achieve. No I do not like how this sound. To have the power to build, change, create, seek, and destroy is the best thing that one can do. One must and shall do all his life. The thing is most men do not know that alone he can create, build, change, seek and destroy. Creating is an act of making a concept into a real form. Take it more simple, forming an idea out of nothingness is one act of creating.

Who am I to tell you about creating?

I, today, or yesterday, or whenever the space and time could be in between this moment to the point of space and time which I referred to, am the winner of a contest some men can never had. The whole day I was wondering about what was it that I did so well in life to God or any conception of something greater than human’s and nature’s force that I deserved all these virtues? What virtues?

The virtue of knowing. The virtue of finding answer to one’s question. Yesterday, or days after that, I am alive. How, astonished as I was, can one be reborn all over again in a year? Over and over again I was reborn, today I am older in years compared to what I was years ago yet I had not aged. The soul, you see, the soul is the key as what Ellsworth Toohey said to Keating one night in Keating’s living room. I wish I would not, ever in many years, to repeat Mr Toheey’s word in any of my prose. However I used them today. It is the soul that you need to save. It is the soul that matters. It is what’s in you that drives all of your thinking process and also determines your deeds in the world.

I grew up as an egotist, reborn again as an egotist, a young egotist with hunger and excitement of the world.

One would not ever in a million years change to become another form of person. One will remains as one always has. If one ever changes, then It is not that he changes but he is showing his true self. The thing about people is they always think about change whenever seeing a new thing, or when encountering an old friend in a coffeeshop. People do not have the courage to stay settle in one state. That change, for people, is inevitable when the truth is nobody changes. We always keep still within our true self, if we are the true egotist. We do not change, we do not adapt to our surrounding.  We create and we build as we are to what we aspire that creation to be in all sort of forms that we have as our ideals. We do not compromise, we do not go slow as the time goes by, we keep still as we are. We work as we are.

Most people spend their life to seek their true self when, stressed by Howard Roark in The Fountainhead, one shall understand their true soul and self without finding it in places outside the body, mind and the soul.

I am not speaking in Ayn Rand’s words. I am speaking as I am as I have always had. I may, I admit, have gone weary along my early years in college trying to find peace by having friends and good relationship. You see, that was the problem, when one accepted to be led by any other driver other than his own spirit, mind and soul, one will go weary. The worst thing, when one give the power of others to instil ideals coming from a source outside of the mind, one will go selfless. What is worst than having a body so hollow without the thinking process? A void, a black void.

Dominique’s fondness of Roark

Late at night, often, she came to Roark’s room. She came unannounced, certain of finding him there and alone. In his room, there was no necessity to spare, lie, agree and erase herself out of being. Here she was free to resist, to see her resistance welcomed by an adversary too strong to fear a contest, strong enough to need it; she found a will granting her the recognition of her own entity, untouched and not to be touched except in clean battle, to win or to be defeated, but to be preserved in victory or defeat, not ground into the meaningless pulp of the impersonal.

When they lay in bed together it was–as it had to be, as the nature of the act demanded–an act of violence. It was surrender, made the more complete by the force of their resistance. It was an act of tension, as the great things on earth are things of tension. It was tense as electricity, the force fed on resistance, rushing through wires of metal stretched tight; it was tense as water made into power by the restraining violence of a dam. The touch of his skin against hers was not a caress, but a wave of pain, it became pain by being wanted too much, by releasing in fulfillment all the past hours of desire and denial. It was an act of clenched teeth and hatred, it was the unendurable, the agony, an act of passion–the word born to mean suffering–it was the moment made of hatred, tension, pain–the moment that broke its own elements, inverted them, triumphed, swept into a denial of all suffering, into its antithesis, into ecstasy.

She came to his room from a party, wearing an evening gown expensive and fragile like a coating of ice over her body–and she leaned against the wall, feeling the rough plaster under her skin, glancing slowly at every object around her, at the crude kitchen table loaded with sheets of paper, at the steel rulers, at the towels smudged by the black prints of five fingers, at the bare boards of the floor–and she let her glance slide down the length of her shining satin, down to the small triangle of a silver sandal, thinking of how she would be undressed here. She liked to wander about the room, to throw her gloves down among a litter of pencils, rubber erasers and rags, to put her small silver bag on a stained, discarded shirt, to snap open the catch of a diamond bracelet and drop it on a plate with the remnant of a sandwich, by an unfinished drawing. “Roark,” she said, standing behind his chair, her arms over his shoulders, her hand under his shirt, fingers spread and pressed flat against his chest, “I made Mr. Symons promise his job to Peter Keating today. Thirty-five floors, and anything he’ll wish to make it cost, money no objective, just art, free art.” She heard the sound of his soft chuckle, but he did not turn to look at her, only his fingers closed over her wrist and he pushed her hand farther down under his shirt, pressing it hard against his skin. Then she pulled his head back, and she bent down to cover his mouth with hers.

She came in and found a copy of the Banner spread out on his table, open at the page bearing “Your House” by Dominique Francon. Her column contained the line: “Howard Roark is the Marquis de Sade of architecture. He’s in love with his buildings–and look at them.” She knew that he disliked the Banner, that he put it there only for her sake, that he watched her noticing it, with the half-smile she dreaded on his face. She was angry; she wanted him to read everything she wrote, yet she would have preferred to think that it hurt him enough to make him avoid it. Later, lying across the bed, with his mouth on her breast, she looked past the orange tangle of his head, at that sheet of newspaper on the table, and he felt her trembling with pleasure.

She sat on the floor, at his feet, her head pressed to his knees, holding his hand, closing her fist in turn over each of his fingers, closing it tight and letting it slide slowly down the length of his finger, feeling the hard, small stops at the joints, and she asked softly: “Roark, you wanted to get the Colton factory? You wanted it very badly?”

“Yes, very badly,” he answered, without smiling and without pain. Then she raised his hand to her lips and held it there for a long time.

She got out of bed in the darkness, and walked naked across his room to take a cigarette from the table. She bent to the light of a match, her flat stomach rounded faintly in the movement. He said: “Light one for me,” and she put a cigarette between his lips; then she wandered through the dark room, smoking, while he lay in bed, propped up on his elbow, watching her.

Once she came in and found him working at his table. He said: “I’ve got to finish this. Sit down. Wait.” He did not look at her again. She waited silently, huddled in a chair at the farthest end of the room. She watched the straight lines of his eyebrows drawn in concentration, the set of his mouth, the vein beating under the tight skin of his neck, the sharp, surgical assurance of his hand. He did not look like an artist, he looked like the quarry worker, like a wrecker demolishing walls, and like a monk. Then she did not want him to stop or glance at her, because she wanted to watch the ascetic purity of his person, the absence of all sensuality; to watch that–and to think of what she remembered.

There were nights when he came to her apartment, as she came to his, without warning. If she had guests, he said: “Get rid of them,” and walked into the bedroom while she obeyed. They had a silent agreement, understood without mention, never to be seen together. Her bedroom was an exquisite place of glass and pale ice-green. He liked to come in wearing clothes stained by a day spent on the construction site. He liked to throw back the covers of her bed, then to sit talking quietly for an hour or two, not looking at the bed, not mentioning her writing or buildings or the latest commission she had obtained for Peter Keating, the simplicity of being at ease, here, like this, making the hours more sensual than the moments they delayed. 

There were evenings when they sat together in her living room, at the huge window high over the city. She liked to see him at that window. He would stand, half turned to her, smoking, looking at the city below. She would move away from him and sit down on the floor in the middle of the room and watch him. 

(The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand)