Death and All His Friends

(this post is taken from my random personal journal which I wrote about a year ago)

My friends and I were walking around downtown Toronto. We were chit-chatting and making jokes about life. And suddenly, one of us received a call about his closest friend's death. He was so young, 19 years old like I was. But out of nowhere, bus accident took him away from his family and friends. 

An intense atmosphere suddenly aroused among us there. One of us tried to crack another joke, but it wasn't so helpful. Clearly, death is something that you can't discuss casually.

But in the matter of death, is there somewhat a normalcy in facing it? Should we be taboo about it? Should we be casual about it?  Should the fact that 150,000 people die everyday mean nothing to us? Should we not be afraid of death?

We search the answers to life questions all the time. Some people, like me, travel miles to seek definitions of life; what does it really mean? and how can we get the most out of it? 

But what about death? In the end, we are all going to face death anyway, aren't we? Death comes to us in the most expected and unexpected way possible. Some people died because their ages said it would be a total miracle if they had lived longer than their current oldness, some people died to chronic diseases from substances they had consumed during their lives, but there are also people whose deaths were caused by some silly little accidents that might seem so unlikely to be a threat to life. Sometimes, there isn't even a cause of death, sometimes people just died while they were resting or praying.

I am hardly a religious man, but ironically, I believe in the afterlife. Still, this belief is not enough to demolish my fear of death. Although I (personally and controversially speaking) know that people wouldn't go dead, like in a notion of die-gone-forever, I worry about death, a lot. I can be cranky when talking about war and killing, sometimes, I can even get paranoiac over illness (oh boy, ask any of my friend about it).

Somehow I have gotten too comfortable with this world I now live in. Life can sometimes be full of messed-up dramas and stupid things, but I love the world, its people and its mundanity.

....

My father used to tell me to hold my breath until i could hear the ocean in my head. And i did, it was a soft roar of sky fighting sea. Eventually when my eyes rolled back like waves, he would make me breathe so i didn't drown. 

My father was always there to tell me to breathe out, but now without him telling me what to do all the time, sometimes it seems i am forgetting how to breathe out. 

....

We were very young when our father left for a work trip in US. Our mother was home, but we missed our father and his stories about stars, planets, and of course, the mystery of death. 

One night we tried in vain to bring our father back to life in our mother, she laid on our bed and we begged a story about ghosts and the afterlife, but she would only do a story on stuffs that are related to our school, like stuff on milk. And rather than talking about the grandeur of the milkyway, she told us the percentages (down to 7 figures) of the essential vitamins in milk. We yawned and slept as she watched on proudly, thinking she had inspired delighting dreams of strong bones and teeth - when she'd only influenced desperate curiosity about death.

When you were young you didn't understand death. death to us was a tall, quiet man dressed in dark and very angry. a shadow of tree limbs on our bedroom wall, rustling and rasping and looking for greatgrandparents to suck and spit and leave to be only memories. Death was whatever scared us most at the time.

....

Once I went to a sea in Jogjakarta. the only other time had been with my family on vacation completely together and that had been a beautiful day. Full of sun and seashells and seabirds and sand. We walked ankle deep on a river beside the sea and we laughed about the silly things we had stumbled upon during our trip. The water level was rising as the soft-glow of the sun shone lightly in the sky. But then in split seconds, the sun was already below the horizon, and the waves were moving so fast between me and my sister.

The waves were pushing my sister and I towards this massive swirling point at the sea, exactly six feet ahead of us. I would be able to get hold of myself and walk to the shore safely, but not with my sister who was floating feebly along the waves. We were panicking. I was crying for help, but oddly, nobody helped us, even a buffy guy near us. I think my sister wanted to scream too, but the waves were coming to her face and filling her mouth with abundant amount of water. I too was soaked and filled with water.

I almost lost the grip of my sister's hand, but my father suddenly spotted us struggling, then ran and helped us. My father carried us to the shore and lied us down. I felt a lot of people were watching us, but I couldn't care about them, I was only thinking of a way to breathe, yeah, I was already out of breath. My father was telling me to breathe out, but the only thing was in my mind was death. Then, I couldn't see nothing but an uber bright white light and I also heard a looping female scream in my head. I was afraid as the most I had ever been and I was holding my sister's hand super tightly. But after my father pressed my stomach twice, the sea water was immersing out of my mouth. The strains in my head were suddenly gone, I was saved. 

.....

This episode might have happened a long time ago, I even have forgotten the remaining details of the trip, but the memory of kissing the death still haunts me like it had just happened yesterday.

the lesson of letting go

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor” - Anne Lamott

I had planned to write this post a month ago. The topic was interesting, and it was one that I was sure most people could relate to. I mean, who hasn’t wrestled at some point with the issue of perfectionism?

One after another, notions and examples of perfectionism flowed steadily from my mind onto my notepad. And when I ran those ideas by a few friends, each of them shared their own stories about how the need to be perfect at something had negatively affected their lives.

Simply put, there was no shortage of material, and this post, I just knew, would be a breeze to write. A slam-dunk. A no brainer.

Until I sat down at the keyboard. When I tried to weave my thoughts into a coherent post, the flow slowed to a trickle. Then, it just stopped. I was frozen, scattered, and unsure of how or where to begin.

“You’re such a perfectionist!”

I had fallen victim, yet again, to my own brand of perfectionism—the kind where I scrutinize every thought/phrase/sentence/punctuation mark circling through my head. The kind where everything has to be perfect, even before it’s typed onto the screen.

If I was going to write this post, it had to be witty, intelligent, and insightful. But in my attempts to get there, I became frustrated, anxious, and creatively blocked. In my effort to be perfect, I nearly missed my deadline.

Deep down, I’ve always felt proud to be known as a perfectionist. Working diligently to deliver excellence, being highly organized and detail oriented has served me well. All the while, however, I’ve often felt plagued, rendered semi-paralyzed, rooted in fear—petrified to take that leap for fear of making a mistake, for fear of failure.

Am I perhaps, more rigid, obsessive, and controlling than I’ve realized?

Bottom line: The dividing line between admirably high standards and the painful distress of perfectionism is exceedingly thin. Alas, I’ve officially arrived at paradox junction.

It’s time to determine when perfectionism pays off and when it becomes the villain, the saboteur.

So wait: Perfectionism isn’t a good thing?

SOJU night

Ssssh!

Hello dear readers, I know it's been almost a year since I last posted in this blog. But being committed to one of my 2013 resolutions, I intend to revive this blog and continue sharing moments/thoughts thoroughly this year. So this post is a starter! The photos in this post were taken when my friends and I had a little get-together at my apartment around a week ago (Yeah, the title pretty much explains it). Please please plase stay tuned! More stuffs are coming, cheers!

Welty Yooo!

Genta and Michael

group pic

Loser!

Roommie running around on a thick January snow

Texas Holdem

My awesome journalist friend, Natasha! Check out her stuffs here

Pemma and Natasha

These two should really get a room.

(*Just kidding I love them both hahaha)

kedjora

Photographs of my dear best friend, Mutiarani Taufieq. 

Becoming Indonesian

My friend, Emir, is set to play Gamelan at the Consulate General of Indonesia

Gamelan music is an integral part in both Javanese and Sundanese ceremonies. So as a person who was born and raised in Java, Indonesia, gamelan is not something peculiar to me. I know many relatives who had gamelan take part in their wedding; their son’s circumcision, their graduation, and so on.

Although I was raised to listen to gamelan, back then I wouldn’t describe this set of ensemble as magical melodious percussion music like many foreigners do. I thought gamelan was really boring. I even wondered, why would modern people have such boring repertoire played in ceremonies, instead of having some conventional pop band or something.

But when I first used the wooden mallet to strike the Saron Barung for myself, I immediately fell in love with this bronze-barred glockenspiel, I fell in love with gamelan music. I know this doesn’t apply to everybody, but I have come to realize, this music actually offers such rich experience for all human senses. Beaten bronze instruments glow softly in frames of intricately carved wood. The honey-like smoothness of the tones and the intense rhythm intertwine to produce a mood that is at once tranquil and dynamic. Ahh, such an even-handed blend of audiovisual experience!

However, awesomeness of gamelan is not the utmost reason for me to continue participate in a Toronto based gamelan club called Godhong Maple.

What is it then? Is it to preserve culture? Well, there are indeed vast concerns that Indonesian culture is about to wipe out, and we see articles everywhere accentuate on how Indonesian youngsters should really preserve it. But for me, it is not about preserving culture either. It is rather due to an egoistic purpose, I want to be defined as a genuine Indonesian.

“But even though I share their blood and history, it’s the choices that I make today, and everyday, to make me who I am” – some quote from tumblr

I am not implying that one is not a genuine Indonesian if he doesn’t know gamelan. I just believe that a person is not defined by where he was born, or what race his parent was, but he is defined by what he chooses to do now, and everyday, and that process makes a person the man he is. That is the reason why I am committed to learn more of Indonesian culture; it is a process of me becoming a man I want to be, Indonesian.

Yet, It is also true being an Indonesian is (again) divine. Some might say defining one by his culture is such a traditional way of judging. But for me, culture of Indonesia, including its performing arts, is the preeminent definition of Indonesians. I feel like, there is a deeper meaning when saying “Indonesians are rich in culture”. Culture of Indonesia is actually something big, we have our own broadway, we have our own ballet, and we have our own orchestra. Our culture had been established long before we were colonized and we started adopting other nations' cultures. We, Indonesians, are great in culture. Thus, If I could be defined as an Indonesian by its culture, which happens to be something really mind-boggling, I would be more than honored.

And again, I don’t care if my friends or my future children or anybody else disvalue culture of Indonesia. I don’t care if it goes extinct. I don’t care if people think it is plainly uninteresting or boring. I don't care if people think I am outdated. But one thing for sure, it is still important to me that I am able to embrace it well, not because of anything else, but myself. And I, without question, applaud those who still appreciate culture of Indonesia, particularly its performing arts :)

Here is a trailer of the movie I have been longing to watch, Sang Penari(The Dancer. Basically, this movie points out that there used to be more to the story in Ronggeng than just a dance performance.

Back

My new friend, Mutia

I am back in the city! I just realized that it has been three months since I last updated this blog. So many things have been going on with me, I had to take care of that, I had to take care of this, I almost didn't have time for myself. Good thing is, everything has been sorted now and I am already back to my routine! (*cheers* and *beers*) 

I thought starting this semester would be another boring phase to get through. But thank god I met this girl called mutia. She just got in toronto a few weeks ago. She came here to pursue a marketing diploma in my previous college. I am so very grateful of her presence here. The day we first met up, I knew we were becoming best friends. We share the same hostility on how awful canada (or toronto in particular) is. We rant on how hip hop culture is very very mainstream here, and how nobody listens to british bands or old timy rock's like us.

Anyway, I love my new college. Since Ryerson University is located right in downtown, it feels a lot more vibrant than my previous college. Everything is nice here. The school is nice, the residence is nice, the people are even nicer. However, I don't think I have discovered all things that this campus has to offer to me, I have been very, very antisocial lately. I know it is surprising that this comes from a person like me, but lately, I have never been in the mood for parties. I never used to reject party invitations, not this many at least. But now, I don't know why. There is always this 'i think i've had enough of this thing' feeling every time somebody invites me to come for some drink. I just feel that now It is very awkward to be in a party, the conversation, the jokes, ugh I just, don't bond that much anymore.

So instead, I've been wandering around TO with mutia. We bursted our asses to be on time for meetings with mutia's possible apartments' landlords, we shopped vinyl records, we watched concerts, and duh, god damns how we recklessly spent our (parents') money on many many stupid expenses like bedding, tiff membership, clothes, etc. Man, I just hope this month's bills don't explode in my mailbox x_x

 Mutia's tired face after a whole day of running here and there

 Eaton centre

 Some guy playing nice music on Yonge st.

 best thing in TO after chicken fingers, BLIXI!!

 hell of a nightview from my new room's window

Some scene in front of metro(?)

Imma Miss My Room

A place of stuffs that always remind me how I really loved tennis of which it had led me to years of fight and struggle. 

A place which possesses the best king-sized bed in the world and the proofs that I was once a narcissistic toddler.

 A place where I can grab toiletries or clean my self while I am still wandering in my dream.

A place in which it lies a bamboo carpet, the sacred spot where I can light ciggies, indulge myself into some soothing music, stumble upon ideas, and get some works done.

And of course, a place where my little sis and I are able to brutaly (s)talk about people all night long till we fall asleep.