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.

nineteen

me and my grandparents

Last sunday, I turned 19. There was nothing too special on that day. It was just me, my parents, my grandparents, my sister (the other sis went to Jakarta for a tennis tournament) plus, endless birthday tweets and walls, uh oh and of course, my mother's birthday cookings (she is a really good cook). It was a good day, i'm glad I spent such a blissful time with my family on my birthday.

Though I really did have a blast staying at home with my family, I thought to myself, I wanted something more, I wanted to dance. So, the next day I finally decided to throw a party at a-place-I-don't-have-to-say-its-name, but is also a good dancing venue with a really great music.

me and few gurls that came way too early

udo

I wasn't allowed to bring my camera inside (and heck I don't know for what fucking reason).  At first, I was so pissed off that I had rented the place and yet I still wasn't able to take pictures. Moreover, I ordered too much drinks for us all $$$$$$-( But however, the great time I had inside made it even. People were coming, and though it was no lux and glamour, but I was having a real good time. I danced the fullest and felt like the happiest man on earth (thanks to my best friends). We finished at about 3-4 in the morning, and decided to go to Gempol to eat and redeem our heads. It was a halfway to Gempol, kemal couldn't stop throwing, and I just remembered I forgot to pick up my camera. We meant to hail back and get the camera, but kemal couldn't bare the moving car any longer. So, I had to stay with him at the street-side with ucok while the others went to get my cam. After the jump are the photos i took after I finally got my camera back. That's what I call a night.

Apparently, the party was too harsh for kemal.

Hard time hopping kemal on the car.

These two goonnies surely had a good time too.

Finally arrived at Gempol.

b-b-b-best chums

We stayed over at Udo's.

Norah Jones's was put on repeat, what a way to end such an exhausting night.