Kenapa tangan saya?

Kenapa ketika berhadapan dengan halaman putih bersih dan kosong begini saya malah gagap menulis? Mengapa kalimat-kalimat menyenangkan untuk ditulis selalu muncul saat saya sedang tidak siap menuliskannya? Ketika tangan sedang memegang gayung saat mandi, ketika sedang terhimpit-himpit di dalam bis dan tangan memegang pegangan besi, ketika sedang berada di dalam lift, ketika sedang terburu-buru didera deadline? Hah.

I Am Very Married

I’m married. It’s been fun so far. We’d wait to move into a bigger place, we’d wait into having kids. Good planning is better. I can’t rely on baby milk or pregnancy regular doctor visit to some myth that goes something like ‘your kids will always bring you luck’. What if my kid isn’t that kind of kid?

I know this far that I, am that lucky woman.

Calon Istri

Nama saya Nataya. Saya berumur 32 tahun. Sering dibilang gila dan workaholic dan sembarangan dan galak sama supir taksi atau bajaj dan aneh dan rambutnya nggak normal dan nggak percaya sama relationship dan…akhirnya saya dilamar.

Hendra Bagya Nooryadin adalah pria yang (kurang) beruntung itu, kalau kata teman-teman saya. Bercanda sih. Tapi mungkin beneran, tergantung siapa yang mengatakan dan bagaimana intonasinya waktu mengatakan itu ke saya. Hahahaha…

Jadi sekarang, saya adalah calon istri Hendra Bagya Nooryadin itu. Saya adalah wanita yang beruntung. Saya sering berterima kasih padanya karena masih terus ingin bersama saya, masih senang mencintai saya setelah berbagai adu mulut, adu argumen, adu judes sama saya (believe me, when he’s being judes, he can be very very very judes), masih setiap hari bilang he loves me.

I love him too. And I’d love to be his wife. Soon.

KARMA?

Pagi ini seorang kakek-kakek hendak turun tangga warung sebelah rumah saya. Tangan kirinya memegang tongkat, tangan kanannya memegang sebungkus makanan. Saya membantunya turun 5 anak tangga, lalu saya berangkat ke kantor. Sepanjang jalan hari ini, saya naik turun bis 2 kali, dengan mudah dan sopan supir bis metromini dan kopaja berhenti tepat di halte sesuai permintaan saya. KARMA?

Setiap kali pacaran saya lebih sering memutuskan pacar saya duluan. Setelah pacar saya yang terakhir, saya tidak berpacaran selama tujuh tahun setelah itu. Ketika tiba-tiba saya berpacaran, saya diputuskan oleh satu orang yang sama dalam kurun waktu satu tahun. KARMA?

Setiap kali naik taksi, saya melebihkan sekitar Rp 500,- - Rp 1.000,- dari angka yang tertera di argo. Suatu kali saya naik taksi dari Mampang ke Ambasador dalam keadaan lalu lintas padat. Sesampainya di Ambasador, supir taksi tidak punya kembalian untuk uang saya yang Rp 50.000,-. Tidak ada seorang tukang jualan pun yang mau menukarnya untuk kembalian. Pak supir akhirnya menyuruh saya turun tanpa membayar. KARMA?

Saya pernah sekali membohongi pacar saya. Suatu kali saya dibohongi oleh pacar saya mentah-mentah dan saya mengetahuinya. KARMA?

Saya senang membaca. Hampir semua hal saya baca. Ternyata ketika menulis, tulisan saya dibaca orang. KARMA?

More of Less

You took the bait
You let them
You let them get to you
You let them get you, exactly where they want you to be
Send you, exactly where they want you to go:
Helplessness
Obedience
Trapped
Bitterness
Powerless
Intensely so, that you are left hollow.
Dreamless
Hopeless
Listless
Selfless

It’s not right, it’s not right
Because you
You, have the right to have a right
To develop
To flourish
To say no
To say it’s enough

Enough to their shiny Jaguar while you’re licking food off the altar
Enough to the fashionable zombies while you’re sewing up tattered freebies
Enough to the empty blabber of socialite madmen while you’re faking an ‘Amen’

There’s nothing wrong with wanting what’s right
But there’s nothing right with whining what’s wrong
Because that’s exactly where they want you to be
That’s exactly what they want you to feel
So you can be:
Choiceless
Helpless
Motionless

Hear the echoes of more of the gripping less-es
And swallowing less of what could have been more

Stop, you should say stop
Because you have the right to have what’s right
Free set yourself free
Because you’re right is to be exactly where you want yourself to be
Then they should see
How powerful you can be when you’re free
When you are free

Space Intruding in Pluto with Bjork

Monday, February 11, 2008 was the day I had been waiting
for. I wish I could say that I had been waiting for it my whole life but then
it would be hyperbolic. But Monday, February 11, 2008 was really the day I had
been waiting for for 12 years. It was the day Bjork had finally landed. On that
stinking, old fashion, beat up Soekarno-Hatta airport of ours. She’s going to
perform the next day. So Tuesday, February 12, 2008 was another day I had been
waiting for, for 12 years.

The waiting continued as I got to the venue, exactly 45
minutes before 8pm when she was supposed to be playing. No opening act. Like,
who could be deserving enough to open for her? Seriously. From this country? I
really don’t think so. Not yet anyway. If there was one person or band, they’re dead already. This, was ladies and gentlemen, B-J-O-R-K.

I looked around at the flock of fashionable freaks flooding
the gate to the venue. They’re dressed to kill modesty, shyness, ordinary,
fashion cowards whom by then had disappeared into other mundane and mediocre
gigs around town. No blacks that were just black, and no Swan-dresser being
assault by the media on E! Channel in their typical "Worst Dressed 100
Specials". There was actually, a girl wearing a Swan Dress. Cover version.
She didn’t have the egg bag to pair it with though. For a moment I felt like I
was in Newtown- Sydney or downtown Melbourne or somewhere in the
streets of Bandung,
or hopping through the pages of TeenVogue and GoGirl and other fashion-it
catalogue and mags. And there were more bules than usual. There was something
different in the air tonight. This was in many sense imaginable, a B-J-O-R-K
concert.

Everybody wanted to see, what kind of plug Java Musikindo
could pull on this most particularly incredibly inspiring and untouchable woman
in the world. This was after all, a B-J-O-R-K concert. Where interviews were
not available, press conference was not of value, smoking and eating and
drinking were not permitted, taking photos was strictly prohibited, and press
passes were scarce. The media crowded the entrance with their cameras and
predestined questions, ready to stop any celebrity less-Bjork for a meaningless
word or what have you. Krisdayanti, dressed in humble black of something
designer and toned down make up, walked in behind with Melly Goeslaw and her
insignificant outfit with loud hair color, was teased by one of the eager
reporters,"So you’re a Bjork grouppie as well?’ Krisdayanti answered, as
a matter-of-factly, "No, no I’m not, I’m Melly’s grouppie!" I smiled
to myself upon witnessing this and thought, ’sure you are’.

This was ultimately a B-J-O-R-K concert. I looked around
again and called Hendra to inform him that I was already at the venue, he said
he was on his way. I told him I was sorry I couldn’t wait for him. I excused
myself from a few friends I ran into on the way to the entrance and walked
inside Tennis Indoor Senayan in a trance. I couldn’t wait. I’ve waited for this
for 12 years. I was not about to be delayed witnessing it. I ran into more
friends as I walked in and found a modest spot about 5 people away from the stage
barricade.

And then I nervously and anxiously waited some more. It was
half an hour pas 8pm. Her stage crew were still plotting and adorning the
stage and backdrop with colorful flags and microphones. On the screens at both
stage sides were screens displaying this gig’s TVC and 5 blinkers of ‘Declare
Independence’ clip. The ‘lobby music’ of some quirky Japanese traditional songs
filled the room. I could feel my hands turned cold, butterflies filled my full
stomach and I started to well up. Any sound coming from that stage hinting a
note of any song would just do it. A plump lady suddenly appeared on the stage
bringing a few big glasses on a tray. She placed them next to the most upfront
microphone.

And then…came the moment I had been waiting for for 12
years and 2 hours. The stage went dark and we could hear brass instruments
filled the room. And there she was. BJORK. Dressed in cauliflower-like metallic
dress and silver legging, barefooted. Jumping and marching to the intro of
‘Earth Intruder’. And the wall of my well exploded.

This was definitely ultimately undeniably a BJORK concert.
You didn’t come late, you didn’t eat, you didn’t drink nor smoking and you
didn’t take photos. Because you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to miss a
thing. You didn’t want to miss a single second. You didn’t want to miss the
well thought presentation of visual, performance, voice, composition, music and
sound that roll seamlessly song after song after song, on that minimalist
stage that could remind her of her first days of performing during her teen.
You didn’t. You just didn’t.

You wanted her all for you. You wanted whatever you saw on
that stage that night to be yours and yours alone. You couldn’t risk sharing it
with anybody who cannot appreciate let alone listen to her genius
interpretation of events, visual, sound and composition. This was not about
some weird songs sung by some weird looking woman. This was about Bjork and
what her life was all about. You didn’t care if you’re the only one who can
appreciate her music, her songs and any of her creation. You just didn’t.

So after 12 years and 2 hours, my waiting was over. Marked by “Pluto” where she exploded the words that filled my head hours after that. “Excuse me, but I just have to explo-o-o-ode. I’ll be brand new, brand new tomorrow…”

I can’t believe it’s already over. Java Musikindo pulled the plug alright. The wall of my well that I had built for 12 years had exploded. And
it’s spilling water still.

Right About Now

I HATE CORRUPTORS.

So, yeah. I do. I DO. With a flaming vengeance.

Are you:

a daughter or a son or a nephew or a niece or a cousin or a wife or a husband or a father or a mother or a sister or a brother or a stepson or a stepdaughter or a stepmom or a stepdad or a grandmother or a grandfather or a pet or a mistress or a gigolo or a friend or a neighbor or a colleague or a maid or a secretary or a relative or a high school friend or a golf buddy or a boss or an employee or a driver of A CORRUPTOR?

Yes you are, I know you are. I can smell you from a mile away. With your mainstream branded products lathering your well maintained skin from head to toe to every single pores on your skin. They open up willingly for the toxic greed of wanting more, buying more, being more, more, more, greedier, greediest - who cares if there weren’t such words, but YOU! I care about you polluting my air. My malls, my streets, my neighborhood. YOU! Yes you! If you’re not breeding by now you will be. Breeding little brat girls and brat boys so well trained with wanting more and buying more and being more and more and more just with the tip of their fingers or foul mouth of stinking orders that give off stench smell of GREED.

Yes. This is for you. For YOU whom I secretly wish and pray first whose offsprings grow dumb so your line of descendants can well dispersed into thin air of Nothingness. Uselessness no money can cure. May they all end up with the dumbest and the greediest kind that resemble your personality and possess weak sperm so you can’t multiply and kill each other of boredom.

Yes. This is for you. If YOU ARE one of the above, I’m sick of your kind. Apalled-turn off-put off-revolt-disgusted and sickened by your glamorous display of untouchable greed. I secretly pray that you rot in this world before you do in hell. Eaten by your own immense guilt and greed and financial disaray caused by high profile diseases.

If you are one of the above, you can stop talking to me. Right about now. And believe me. You deserve all the above. You don’t deserve being here, nor being a person I even remotely know the name of.

Right about now.

The Next Step

It is awfully late for my habitual ritual year-end conclusion of 2007. But I can explain why it’s late. First of all, my iBook G4 is busted and ‘gone blind’ in November, sending me in sheer shock to the fact that I should buy another laptop (especially the trauma of the notion of suddenly spending more than 10 million rupiah) immediately. I don’t have the time and especially the money to spend. But I need a ready handy computer. So, here I am typing on my good ol’ G3 I gave to a bestfriend a long time ago. I’m borrowing this. Miss G3 is working just fine. But internet connection is a slight hassle since she doesn’t have a built in Wi-Fi, which forces me to go back to the Ethernets and Dial-Up cables. Anyway…still so so so much better than ziltch computer.

Mr. iBook G4 is still sleeping at the shelf of my bestfriend’s office at the moment. I’m clueless on what to do to it. But when the time and money fit, I’m all open wide for a second hand iBook G4. With built in Wi-Fi of course.

So, yeah, 2007. Let’s see. Many many things happened then. I was involved in a play production, and a string of debts that followed after (which, we’re still working on paying up for it), started a theater company (in effect to being involved in the play production), disappointed a few people, ditched a couple of hang up projects, got dumped twice, saw Red Hot Chilli Pepper and Megadeth live, made new good friends (that meant you, Pip, Fin!), sent off two of my very bestfriends: Amy and Andy to their respected husband and wife, attended two weddings of a couple of exes with my family, and I fell in love.

Who would have thought?

Hmmm. I guess that should sum up all. Although, I personally think that last year I rested too much and wrote less than I should. So, 2008 must be the year of me kicking back and doing it all again. Working, writing, planning, following up plans, being more careful in choosing jobs, maintaining networks, and earning more. Besides getting married and all that comes with it and avoiding sit facing North.

So, happy new year all.

And my NEXT STEP is…

MIE AYAM UNTUK MASA DEPAN

Pagi ini saya nggak terlalu mood untuk langsung ke kantor. Jadi, setelah rute biasa kami dari Mampang ke Blok-M, saya yang biasanya turun duluan, memutuskan untuk menemani pacar saya sampai Terminal Blok-M.

Dari situ saya tidak langsung ke kantor. Saya mau ke bank dulu. Tapi jam masih pukul 08.00, bank yang saya tuju baru buka pukul 09.00. Saya berjalan keluar terminal menaiki tangga penyeberangan dan memutuskan untuk mencari sarapan pagi dulu. Sebetulnya sih, sudah terbayang pisang bakar coklat di warung dekat kantor. Tapi perut ini cukup keras usus juga, karena dengan kekeuhnya ‘menggerutu’ kelaparan. Di seberang Terminal, ada pangkalan Bajaj nggak resmi yang pagi ini kelihatan kosong. Lalu saya lihat ada tukang gorengan, gerobak ketoprak, meja dan bangku kayu, gerobak mie ayam dan minuman. Mie ayam kayaknya enak juga sembari menunggu jam 09.00 dan Bajaj.

Saya pun berjalan menuju bangku yang masih kosong. Hanya ada seorang mbak-mbak yang sedang berusaha menghabiskan sepiring ketopraknya. Ia sedang merokok dan tertawa-tawa dengan si tukang jualan. “Pedes apa nggak, Mbak?” tanya si bapak penjual kepada saya dengan logat Jawa Tengahnya yang khas sambil menunjuk ke arah ketoprak. “Mie ayam aja, Pak,” kata saya. ‘Ada yang jualnya kan?” tanya saya setelah tidak melihat penjual lain lagi di situ padahal ada dua gerobak: Ketoprak dan Mie Ayam. “Ya, saya juga, Mbak,” katanya. Saya duduk di sebelah perempuan yang sedang merokok itu. Ia mengomentari kalau mungkin mie ayam lebih baik daripada ketoprak di pagi hari. “Perut saya jadi agak sakit nih, tiba-tiba abis makan ketoprak. Kacangnya kali ya?” katanya sambil memegang perut.

Setelah rokoknya habis, ia membayar ketoprak yang tidak habis itu lalu pergi. Si bapak penjual ini nggak kelihatan terlalu dekil. Kaos Polo-polo-annya warna merah dan celana panjangnya hitam. Ia selalu tersenyum. Sambil membuatkan pesanan saya ia bertanya saya asli mana. Jakarta, kata saya. Dia bilang ah, masa sih? Seorang pelanggan lain datang dan duduk di sebelah saya. Ia juga memesan mie ayam.

Mie ayam bapak ini lumayan enak juga. Cara dia mengolah si ayam tidak biasa. Ayamnya dihancurkan hingga halus macam abon, disangrai pakai bawang putih dan ditaburkan di atas mie yang masih panas, plus tambahan bakso satu besar dan 2 kecil. Porsinya juga, waduh…mengenyangkan. Saya pun memesan satu lagi untuk kawan kantor saya. Sambil menunggu Bajaj, si bapak cerita dia sudah belasan tahun mangkal di pengkolan situ. Saya bertanya kenapa tidak ada yang ‘mengasisteni’nya. “Ah, repot, Mbak. Dulu ada, tapi orangnya gila. Baru nyampe terus mbuka tenda, nyiap-nyiapin, ditelpon istrinya terus tau-tau ngilang, kerjaan ditinggal gitu aja. Nanti mbalik-mbalik udah sore. Saya suruh berenti. Males saya. Mbaknya koq sendirian, Mbak?” tanyanya.

Anaknya juga tidak suka membantu. Anaknya hanya ikut mengantarnya kalau pagi, dan menjemput kalau ia sudah selesai. Ia berangkat pukul 07.00 pagi dan bungkus pulang pukul 22.30 malam. Seharinya ia bisa menjual ratusan mangkuk mie ayam dan ratusan piring ketoprak. “Tapi mangkal sini ya biayanya lumayan juga, Mbak. Ada biaya parkir Rp 1.500,- sehari, Rp. 1.000,- sehari untuk air, terus tiap minggu mesti ngasih rokok satu bungkus ke bawahannya tramtib, ngasih tramtib Rp 150.000,- tiap bulan, terus nanti ada lagi tramtib kecamatan itu minta Rp 10.000,- tiap minggu…”

“Oyah? Beda-beda toh, tramtibnya?” potong saya. “Beda, Mbak.” Kalau nggak ngasih, dia pasti diusir. Nggak boleh jualan di situ lagi. Kalau preman daerah situ malah nggak terlalu mengganggu dia. “Cuma tramtib,” katanya lagi. Jadi, untuk seorang ‘bisnismen’ macam bapak ini, ia harus menghabiskan biaya sekitar Rp 310.000,- tiap bulannya agar bisnisnya berjalan lancar. Tiba-tiba ia menawari saya rokok. Saya bilang saya tidak merokok. Dengan heran ia mengatakan bahwa padahal kalau saya merokok saya akan kelihatan lebih cantik. Halah. Ia bilang kalau dirinya juga tidak merokok. Ia heran dengan betapa makin mudanya anak-anak yang mulai merokok, terutama anak-anak perempuan. “Sekarang, semua perempuan ngerokok, Mbak.” Saya bilang kalau saya tidak akan merokok seperti halnya saya tidak akan makan anjing. Ia tertawa.

Pesanan mie ayam saya yang untuk dibungkus sudah selesai. Saya memberikan uang Rp 20.000,-. Kembalian yang saya terima adalah Rp 4.000,- Hmmm…ini adalah mie ayam pinggir jalan termahal yang pernah saya makan. Considering, porsi, bonus bakso, biaya operasional per bulan yang harus ia keluarkan, keramahtamahannya, dan segala pujiannya yang manis-manis sebagai bagian dari servis bawah sadarnya kepada pelanggan, saya pun maklum saja. Saya minta diri dan menyetop Bajaj kosong yang akhirnya lewat. Dalam hati saya berhitung metode kumon penghasilan dan pengeluaran si bapak. Waw, pikir saya. Coba deh, kalian hitung sendiri. Saya jadi berpikir, jangan-jangan itu Polo beneran yang dia pakai.

(posting-an ini juga di post di www.bloggaul.com dengan ending sentence yang berbeda)

Street (IN)Justice

It was a Thursday morning, 7am and my friend was telling me about what just happened to him on his way to my place. He said, “The old man was riding a bike in front of my car, right, and he suddenly just fell. I hit the brake just in time to save his head from my bumper.” (He’s driving a big Ford car) “So I just sort of stopped right there, not moving, apparently he fell because he hit the car in front of him, which was an ‘angkot’ (a small minibus, public transport) that stopped to get a passenger. While stopping, a motorcycle hit me from the back. Being a big tough car, nothing happen to my car but the motorcycle almost fell,” he continued. “And apparently, the old man on the bike severed his arm quite bad. Everybody started gathered around and in the midst of confusion he almost convinced people that *I* hit him from the back. The freaking angkot disappeared and I was trying to defend myself and it was getting hot when suddenly, a lady said to everyone that it was not me who hit the old man, but he jumped brake his bike too late to avoid the suddenly stopping angkot. Geez, man. That was really, really, really, close. I was *that* close to being a mush victim of street justice crap.”

And he went on about how so thick with prejudice everyone in this city is. Everyone, he said. Including him. I couldn’t deny his words. I feel that I, myself am, also being one too. Sometimes. We got to his car, preparing our mental state of the murder traffic going to Trisakti in the morning.

On our way, I looked around. Cars and motorcycles and buses and ‘things’ like assorted vendors are piling up on the street, each eager to beat everyone else and be the first in line. To what? To where? With this much persistence on the road, that I seem to witness every single day, it’s really hard to believe that there are more news and sharing about lazy workers and employees or people who just do not grasp the idea and the ethic of the professional world, than the good news about how nobly hardworking and professional eveybody is.

My friend is still going on about how insanely horrifying this country is, if things are continuing to look like this. And in the back of my head I’m thinking, that, I’ve seen this happening since when I was 12, and that, was 22 fucking years ago.