on a daily basis

That Vague Face of the Little Bird

2012-01-24T01:00:00.000+07:00

Since invented, I think only a few people have some ideas what Twitter is. It didn't even have a business model until recently (though the same goes to Facebook, even Google). I surely doubt that there was any vision that it is to be the most poweful global conversation engine of the 21century. Co-founder Williams hinted during his TED talk that he and the other founders were just thinking along the line of 'wouldn’t be interesting if there's an online application with which people can say what's on their minds in an instant.' Much of what has been happening next with Twitter were as surprising to them as they were to any tech foretune teller, or maybe even any of us.

It's amazing how invention seldom work the way the inventors intended. Once society has their hands on them, they figure out ways to make them work in their directions. Some of the time they even work way better (I suspect that by 'some' I mean 'most of the time' but as usual I have no data to back me up).

Back when Yahoo! was the king of the net (a day in internet years) it flooded me with new stuff, but they are stuff they steered me to know. When Google took the throne, I suddenly realized that I was just being handed the freedom that we netizens rightfully own all along (I mean, the page was just a logo and a search box). That was the year that my browsing frenzy truly began (that and the fact that I began to have enough money to pay for my own internet connection). Like a ferocious cancer, the number of information I accessed was on crazy high-speed growth.

The crazy thing about that --that is, for me-- is that Twitter actually managed to top that. With Twitter, you sign up, you follow people --those of your peers, those whom you share similar interests, and here comes the good part, those who know better than you do, and those who inspire you. After that, cyber magic happens.

With Google, the one thing that stands between you and the knowledge 'for you' is the right keyword. If you're keyword blind, all you the data you get are just garnish at best. Suddenly with Twitter, that blindness is globally medicated. All you need is those people to connect to. It even doesn't matter whether you know if the the people you know know what you don't know (ah crap, my line). You just follow some people, and you get what THEY google, too. It's like your very own outsourced team working for you. For free. And you can do the same for them, too. How you collaborate with them is a wide-open possibility.

On my Twitter days so far, I get to find out who inspire my idols. I get to know that Bill Gates is admiring Khan Academy founder Salman Khan. I get to read the same economic essays my favorite comedians read. I witnessed some great scientific minds get creamed by novice science soldiers (great overlooked debates of all time, in my opinion). I get to see how evidently the number one of anything is number one only by social perception, not by facts. Yes, I get to see significant political changes from the point of view of the very people who bring the strong words on to the streets, too (as opposed to major news media narratives). That exec from Google who had something to do with recent Egypt revolution is amazing.

The likes of these you can see literally every day. These are available because people you know search for things you probably won't, and TWEET them (maybe not for you, but you get them anyway). I think that is the clue to the true face of Twitter.

Those chains of rants and cheap wisdoms that busied our timelines are merely the surface, cosmetic even. Still, they don't have to be a bad thing. Maybe we'll learn as we go (besides, they may be well be a post for another day). Maybe these misthoughts are the building blocks of the eventual better lessons we will learn and earn. I have no freaking clue what will happen next with people. Will we still be on Twitter when we're better people? Or will we mirgrate to some Twitter killer? Or will we even be better people with whatever app at hands? You have to agree that is exciting (No, you don't have to).
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Not These Ones

2011-03-31T23:48:00.002+07:00

My sister told me that my dad is now a proud owner of a Twitter account. She hadn't told the username, so I googled "anwar yusuf on twitter." I found these. I don't think neither is my dad.

Small Attention

2011-03-12T20:46:00.001+07:00

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Early morning there was a sad news in the family. On the taxi ride to meet my family, a 'good-morning-drive-safely' from a toll-booth officer on duty eased up my worried mind, to my surprise.

Thank you.
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Confusing Option

2011-03-05T14:18:00.002+07:00

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Kultwit is a confusing option. If there's that much to tweet, why not blog them?
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In Awe

2011-02-26T23:19:00.000+07:00

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I'm in awe of the mechanism of intelligence.
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What To Learn About Singularity

2011-02-22T14:49:00.007+07:00

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Excerpt from TIME February 21, 2009
2045: The Year Man Becomes Immortal
Original article is here.

Sin.gu.lar.i.ty
n: The moment when technological change becomes so rapid and profound, it represents a rupture in the fabric of human history.

(At age 17, Kurzweil appeared on 1965 TV Show I've Got A Secret, showcasing a computer that composes music --his own invention)

(on artificial intelligence)
"... Kurzweil would spent much of the rest of his career working out what his demonstration meant. Creating a work of art is one of those activities we reserve for humans and humans only. It's an act of self-expression; you're not supposed to be able to do if you don't have a self. To see creativity, the exclusive domain of humans, usurped by a computer built by a 17-year-old is to watch a line blur that cannot be unblurred, the line between organic intelligence and artificial intelligence."

"...We will successfully reverse-engineer the human brains by the mid-2020s. By the end of that decade, computers will be capable of human-level intelligence. Kurzweil puts the date of the Singularity --never say hes not conservative-- at 2045. In that year, he estimates, given the vast increases in computing power and the vast reductions in the cost of the same, the quantity of artificial intelligence created will be about a billion times the sum of all the human intelligence that exists today."

Ray Kurzweil Explains the Coming Singularity (from YouTube channel BigThink)

(on life extension)
".. After artificial intelligence, the most talked-about topic at the 2010 summit was life extension, biological boundaries that most people think of as permanent and inevitable. Singularitarians see as merely intractable but solvable problems. Death is one of them. Old age is an illness like any other, and what do you do with illnesses? You cure them. Like a lot of Singularitarians ideas, it sounds funny at first, but the closer you get to it, the less funny it seems. It's not just wishful thinking; there's actual science going on here.

For example, it's well-known that one cause of the physical degeneration associated with aging involves telomeres, which are segments of DNA found at the ends of chromosomes. Every time a cell divides, its telomeres get shorter, and once a cell runs out of telomeres, it can't reproduce anymore. But there's an enzyme called telomerase that reverses this process; it's one of the reasons cancer cells live so long. So why not treat regular noncancerous cells with telomerase? In November, the researchers at Harvard medical School announced in Nature that they had done just that. They administered telomerase to a goup of mice suffering from age-related degeneration. The damage went away. The mice didn't just get better; they got younger.

Aubrey de Grey is one of the world's best-known life-extension researchers and a Singularity Summit veteran. A British biologist with a doctorate from Cambridge and a famously formidable beard, de Grey runs a foundation called SENS, or Strategies for Engineered Negligible Senescence. He views aging as a process of accumulating damage, which he has divided into seven categories, each of which he hopes to one day address using regenerative medicine. "People have begun to realize that the view of aging being something immutable — rather like the heat death of the universe — is simply ridiculous," he says. "It's just childish. The human body is a machine that has a bunch of functions, and it accumulates various types of damage as a side effect of the normal function of the machine. Therefore in principal that damage can be repaired periodically. This is why we have vintage cars. It's really just a matter of paying attention. The whole of medicine consists of messing about with what looks pretty inevitable until you figure out how to make it not inevitable."
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What To Learn From Child's Brain

2011-02-21T18:28:00.003+07:00

"In investigating the child's brain, we are going to uncover deep truths about what it means to be human; and in the process we may be able to help keep our minds open to learning for our entire lives." (at 9:52 of 13:28)

Patricia Kuhl at TEDxRainer
Seattle, Washington,October 2010

From Sagan's "Scientific Experience"

2011-02-15T17:48:00.005+07:00

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In 1985, Carl Sagan gave Gifford Lectures, a scientific tradition of lecture series established to promote and diffuse the study of Natural Theology in the widest term (this is googleable). Psychologist and Philosopher William James gave lectures on the same occasion in 1902. His lectures were entitled The Varieties of Religious Experience (published later). In tribute to James, Sagan entitled his The Varieties of Scientific Experience, and later on published, too.

Below are parts excerpted from Scientific Experience. The conjectures are beautiful, I hope they will be proven valid (italics are mine).
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From Chapter 8:
The Crimes Against Creation

“I find myself engaged in the spacecraft exploration of nearby worlds, something that would have been considered the most rank fantasy just two generations ago, when the Moon was the paradigm of the unobtainable. Some of you will remember those poems and popular songs --“Fly Me To The Moon,” meaning asking for the impossible. And yet in our time a dozen human beings have walked on the surface of the Moon...”

“I’ve spent much of my time over the last twenty years in the exploration of solar system. Our robot emissaries have left the Earth, have visited every planet known to the ancients, from Mercury to Saturn, and reconnoitered some forty attendant smaller worlds, the satellites of those planets. We have flown by all those worlds, we have orbited and landed on three of them: the Moon, Venus, and Mars. There are something approaching a million close-up pictures of other worlds in our libraries. And it is remarkable experience. Here’s world never before known by human beings, and then, for the first time, it is explored. This is a continuation of the spirit adventure that I think has been a propelling force in human history. The worlds are lovely. They’re exquisite. It is a kind of aesthetic experience to see them.”

From Chapter 9:
The Search

“...We started hundreds of thousand to millions of years ago as itinerant tribespersons, in which the fundamental loyalty was to a very small group, by contemporary standard. Typical hunter-gatherer groups are maybe a hundred people, so the typical person on the planet had an allegiance to a group of no more than a hundred or a few hundred people.

The names that many of these tribes give to themselves are touching in their narrowness. All over the world people call themselves “the people,” “the men,” “the humans.” All those other tribes, they aren’t people, they aren’t men, they aren’t humans. They are something else. Now, that doesn’t mean that a state of constant warfare existed among these tribes, as Thomas Hobbes, for example, imagined. A significant fraction of of those early gropus, there is reason to think, were benign, calm, peace-loving, not interested in systematic, bureaucratized aggression, which is the function of states at a later time.

As time passed, groups have merged, sometimes voluntarily, sometimes involuntarily, and the unit to which personal identification and loyalties are due has grown. The sequence is known to all of those who take courses in the history of civilization at universities, in which we pass through allegiances to larger groups, to city-states, to settled nations, to empires. Today the typical person on the Earth is obviously a patchwork quilt of political, economic, ethnic, and religious identifications, owing allegiance to a group or groups consisting of a hundred million people or more. It’s clear that there is a steady trend, if the trend continues, there will be a time, probably not so far in the future, when the average person’s typical identification is with the human species, with everyone on Earth.”

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* Among many things, Carl Sagan is known as an astronomer. He is one of significant leading scientists who promote public understanding of science. He wrote Broca’s Brain: Reflection on the Romance of Science in 1979, Cosmos in 1980, and Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of Human Future in Space in 1994 (his other publications is definitely googleable). His novel Contact, inspired by his scientific odyssey, was adapted into a box-office feature-length film under the same title, starring Jodie Foster and Matthew McConnaughey. Scientific Experience is later published, too (edited by Ann Druyan, an author and, without coincidence, one of the producer of the movie Contact)

* I don't know if this amount of quoting is a copyright breach (I hope not)
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What I Learned About Heroes

2011-02-11T01:05:00.002+07:00

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I admire scientists and artists. I marvel the former for their aspiration to pursue truths, and the latter for beauties. I think it's Pythagoras who pointed out that the two are one and the same (or may it's just that he discovered mathematical scale in music --then I overgeneralized it). I suppose my heroes are those who find ways from their scientific paths to artistic, or vice versa.
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Children Make Terrible Pets

2011-02-07T17:53:00.006+07:00

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(picture screen-captured from peterbrownstudio.com)

(major spoiler alert!)

Lucy, a young bear, took home a human boy she found squeaking behind bushes. Keeping him a pet, Lucy finds children make the worst pet to take care of (aside from the fun of it). She too will learn that, for the pet, keeping it as one is not always the best thing.

This is Peter Brown's picture book following Curious Garden and Children is as fun as Garden is, and more. His drawings are something to marvel over and over again. One can immediately realize they are of meticulous design instead merely of things to pass time with (Brown quite the experimenter when it comes to drawing styles). Almost on every page he jokes without skidding off the main story. To make his point on empathy, Brown reverse the roles of pet and pet keeper (genius, I say).

To peek his works you can visit his studio here.
Click here, too, to read book description.
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It's A Book by Lane Smith

2011-02-03T19:45:00.004+07:00

A two-page spread of It's A Book by Lane Smith. Really love it. Source: NYTimes.com

Check out this It's A Book video trailer for McMillanChildrens' new release children picture book. It's A Book, by Lane Smith, tells a story of three friends: Monkey, Jackass, and a Mouse. The laptop-nerd Jackass finds Monkey's book curious and doesn't know what to do with it. Funny story. New Yorker writer Adam Gopnik wrote this short review.

PS: I didn't know children picture books have trailers :-)

What I Learned From Playing Badminton

2011-01-29T14:54:00.002+07:00

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I used to think that sports is a thing you do upgrade your stress threshold. I was wrong. That’s exercise. Sports is a whole different thing of beauty. I have been doing thing all wrong.

About almost five months ago I got a badminton invite. Since one of my 2010 resolution was ‘socialize more’, and it was October and have to meet some quota, I took up the offer and have been playing along for a while. That was the first time I found out that I am not bad at sports. I suck with perfection (from my choice of words you will be able to judge how badminton-illiterate I really am).

I have always thought that badminton court was just a small box. It wasn’t going to be hard to guard. I could do that myself. I couldn't be more wrong. It never occurred to me that there is such a thing as standing at the right vs. wrong spot. I consistently give ways for my opponent to make me sprint across my side of the court just to get my racket to tip the cock just a little bit. And the shuttlecock, I thought it was just a light thingie to bash over the net. It is indeed bashable, but toward me, seldom by me. I’m so easy of opponent, I always have to twirl my way to the cock because it is always going to a vacant side (and I allow quite of space of those). I never thought it could make me very busy.

But these people that I play with: They understand where to stand and be ready moment after moment. When they talked me the play-by-plays, I my brain just went overdrive. I understand completely what they’re saying, but those instructions require complex, high-speed, real-time motor processing which I’m probably unequipped for. Even after months of trainings.

On a double match, partners plan their attacks, predict defenses, share equal grounds to cover, manage their power releases, keep their partners optimistic. For the whole ordeal, score after score, they have only few seconds. They coordinate themselves without so much as a word. If they do, they chose their words with conciseness, brevity, and without offense (well, most of the time). That’s hard core multitasking. That’s social skill at the speed of thought. To act out those instructions myself I would need three seconds delay. That is, by the way, a complete unfit request. By then I would have already lost a point and disappoint my partner.

These people measure themselves, their matches, and get ideas on how the game will play out. Will they be competitive? Will there be more offenses or defenses on their sides? Will they be facilitative or deceptive?

Here is my favorite part: how much jokes they will throw on the court? They will be fouls, countless of them. That’s where you get scores. You make your opponents err as many times as you can. It’s either theirs or yours. It’s amazing how they laugh the hell out those. In televised sports event they call the encounter of two parties a match. In our court, we call them games. That’s how they can afford the amount of laughs on the court. Those errors aren't faults, they are bloopers. For that, they laugh when they win, and they laugh when they lose. In comedy, jokes crack us up for their element of surprises and their degree of reality -distortion. That’s exactly what they bloop around on the playfields. They crack them up and make them come for more the next week.

Last thing. When these friends gather around, 80% of their talks are soccer. They describe matches, analyze them, commenting on the transfers and the politics of it. This is where I’m drawing some serious line. At least for now. Who knows. Maybe resolution for 2015.
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What I Learned From Reading, Watching, Browsing, Listening Drawing As Much As Everything-- As I Can

2011-01-28T15:01:00.007+07:00

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A few years ago I came across a quote by some guy named Goethe. The quote, by the way, was:

“One should, each day, try to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it is possible, speak a few reasonable words.”

I had no idea who exactly Goethe was (I’ve already wrote him an imaginary apology-slash-gratitude letter for this), and still I haven’t paid him the respect by at least completely finding out who he really is (I may have to write him another letter, or maybe just a serious historical background check will do --one a lot more than merely Wikipedia-ing).

I had a hunch that Goethe was in more than one way famous. That I found the line from some book of famous people’s quotes sort of helped. About the hunch part, I was right on the money. I just didn’t know by how much. At the time his importance slipped me, but the quote was extremely sound that it stucked in me.

Most quotes are metaphors and I skipped them. Not that they are not true, but that they are too often being overused as the truths. Einstein, among countless others, made numerous complaints about how his metaphors were taken literally, sometimes even to their contradictory meanings.

But this particular one by Goethe was straightforward instructional. And open-ended, too. No metaphors. No cause and effect offered. In fact, it is only only a suggestion (despite the word ‘should’). So I decided to follow it literally for some time.

I pick a song everyday to attend to. Sometimes the occasion is obvious it is as if the days pick their own songs, like the first day of the new year, twelve days of Christmas, a month of Ramadhan, graduation day, high day at the office, low day at the office, broken-hearted day, Friday-being-in-love day. Sometimes the days are so fuzzy I surrender to iPod to shuffle my mood in, a song a day. I read poems, too (read as in, not out loud). I’m no poetry literate, so for some while song lyrics would have to do. That my iPod shuffles helps me not to be too picky (and I have my friends stuffed my iPod with songs I would never stumble into). On reading department, I’m more of a book reader than poetry, so I continue doing that, too.

I ‘take in’ pictures, too, one for each day. I’ve seen pictures good in merely a decorative sense. Though they are good, ones that communicate insights are more captivating. They are visual version of great ideas books. Sometimes even a simple graph will do. Armed with Google I found unlimited stocks of picture websites. It is safe to know that a-picture-a-day will not stop any time soon, or at all.

And the people whose work of arts I follow have not shown any sign of exhaustion. Contrary to the myth of blocks of any kind --writers’ block, painters’ block, musicians’ block, and on-- they don’t seem to run out of ideas. In fact each previous ideas seem to make solid, elaborating bases onto which new ideas will continue building. Creation seems to be an endless looping, autofeedback process. Steven Johnson, in his book Where Good Ideas Come From, used the term adjacent possible: that creation of one thing leads to multiple possibilities for the next creations (Johnson actually borrowed the term from biologist Stuart Kauffman --another person to whom I will Wikipedia later to see his historically significance. I think Kauffman used the term to describe the rich life creation on coral reeves ecosystems).

One of my teacher told me something about the term “sharing”. In corporate world, “sharing” does not necessarily means to give without anticipating returns. In fact, the word implies an estimation of particular amount of returns. Though sharing, in its internet sense of the word, doesn’t even remotely reflect this, it actually does the same thing.

The people I was talking about go sharing-spree everyday, more than once a day, even. They pay forward fellow artists’ works online in however way possible --now, they retweet-- and get reciprocated in return. Their own works plus others’ works combined are more than enough idea banks for them. Maybe there are even more ideas available than the time to actually work on them. I take it that this is what my teacher meant about “sharing”. The only different is, unlike in corporate context, most of the times these people don’t exactly expect any sort of return on investments. But return on investments are exactly what they get. The whole interaction is like a whole army of adjacent possible. Just the thought if it is scary (in a good way). I don’t think ideas exhaustion is even in their realm of possibility.

Since the first day I followed Goethe, I started to blog the stuff I found, making inventories of them in case other people are interested to know. I only realized then that the act of picking plus putting them on a dedicated space enhances experiencing them. On day #100, I stopped blogging them (there’s too many of them I couldn’t keep up and blog them at the same time). Then I go on making countless scribbles, writing small notes, whistle strange new tunes. I posted some of them, and some strangers responded: reposting or commenting. Whatever they do, they feed me new stuffs to think about. There’s a good feeling knowing that even the simplest ideas matter. There’s even a greater feeling that you yourself will not run out of ideas, my very own “adjacent possible”. I owe most of that good feeling from strangers who respond.

Now I’m seriously looking for ways to use these insights (I’m sort of clueless). Maybe turn them into real works. Help needed.
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What I Learned From Writing

2011-01-27T00:24:00.003+07:00

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That I’m not quick to get to the point; and I elaborate more on my way making my point than on making my point.
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What I Learned From The West Wing

2011-01-23T19:30:00.011+07:00

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The West Wing is a TV series revolving around the day jobs of of US President with his senior aides. It is a multicharacter show with the president not necessarily being the center of the universe. It aired for seven seasons, premiered in September 1999. The plot progresses from Bartlet administration going through disappointing second year, running for a second term, and leaving legacy to the next presidential candidate. The casting list includes Martin Sheen, Rob Lowe, Bradley Whitford, Richard Schiff, Dule Hill, Allison Janney, Janel Moloney, and Stockard Channing. The West Wing is created and lead-written by Aaron Sorkin, and lead-directed by Thomas Schlamme, and produced by John Wells (but the roles changes hands repetitively during its seven years).

I don’t know a zip about the science of politics. And I am only familiar with its practices as far as the media would expose them, which means it’s a lot of fucks (not literally). But if anyone asks me my favorite TV series (not that anyone asked), I would name The West Wing with sick consistency. It has been so for the past ten years (who knows if it’s because that not many series has measured up, or simply that I lack TV experiences).

Watching it, one would forget that the The West Wing showcases allegedly one of the most scandalous profession. In the show, however, politician is no such thing. It is on the contrary the most romantic, even humanely, one possible (in the vocational sense of the term). It makes one forgives one’s self for ever liking politicians --at least the politicians in the show-- the way men forgive themselves for ever letting themselves screwed for having goosebumps watching A Walk To Remember (In Walk’s case, good thing we, men, rehab ourselves soon afterward).

The way Aaron Sorkin wrote it, President Bartlet’s is the most open-minded, collaborative, full of freedom, creative, and --to mention this again-- “humanely” White House, or any workplace for that matter. Every staff, senior-level or lower, are free to contribute their thoughts, negotiating any option available within the best interest of the constituents they represent. They are even entitled to make their cases with the leader of their free world. There is not an episode goes by without some arguing, debating, or for goodness sake from time to time, shouting at the president involved. At the end of the day (or, episode) everyone would found some new enlightening common ground to start over, with President Bartlet not all the time being right (in fact, he seldom is, but in a good way).

Open transaction of ideas and aspirations like these are not limited even within the oval office. It is very noticeable that every in-oval-office dispute ends with the staff recusing himself out, saying, “Thank you, Mr. President.” I think it’s really “Thank you Mr.President for the opportunity to make my case,” or “for the chance to speak my mind, just for the peace of it,” or “for even considering my thoughts. I know yours is the hardest job to make decision.” Or maybe it’s all of the above. It is as if gratitude is mandatory all over the House. It is one of the most inspiring detail of the series.

The West Wing’s are meticulously-written scripts. Sorkin might only appear writing pages and pages, but anyone who watches even only one of its episodes should realize that he was going for detailed sculpture of audiences' semantic experiences. There is no room for ambiguity for a show in which long, back-and-forth conversation is the main course. Everyone in the show talks fast and accurately. Through the series I learned how clarity of speech can be evidence for one being true to his or her words; that one choice of adjective can, within minutes, makes your eyes water; and that every ideas within our minds, delivered accurately, will guarantee unforgettable comprehension and elated feelings. You cannot get any sappier than that.

If there is any flaw in The West Wing, it is that every character is that verbally fluent and shares the exact sense of humor. Everyone one celebrates language as valuable, unlimited assets and they do no less when they kid around. They make the kind of jokes that get you feel appreciated for the intellect you possess, or maybe just the promise of it. And boy do they make a lot of them. I would imagine that in a place of such stresses, comedy would serve as lubricant that keeps unhealthy conflicts away (by the way, do you know that founder of positive psychology Martin Seligman identified humor one of important adaptive character strengths?). So you see, for me, this flaw poses no problem.

So here are your thoughts that Sorkin tweaks by you watching The West Wing: that you deserve a boss like Bartlet, and colleagues like everyone in the show; that there is no such thing as small stuff; that all ideas are worth hearing, even if they contradict everyone in the office (especially if they contradict everyone in the office); that you are as good as both your words and deeds; that you deserve a job bigger than the works; that it is okay to think these ways; and that these thoughts should be okay not only in the world of fiction, but in real life, too (just saying).

And if these aren't true, at least The West Wing gives a glimpse picture of how politics works, regardless of its murky accuracy.

Josh Lyman playing out argument with assistant Donna Moss.

The West Wing casts' reunion intervew.
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What I Learned From Debating With My Senior

2011-01-16T19:38:00.006+07:00

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(on technology and human lives)
A senior of mine resents information technology so much that she thinks human lives are so way better when the world was without them. To keep my description of her fair, I think she is one of the most reasonable people I know. It is just that I think she always delivers her opinions more dramatically that they deserve. I have never succeeded to persuade her in the subject. Maybe I don’t understand her point just as much she doesn’t understand mine.

In the against-too-much-technology, she is not alone in her side of the club. I have read articles after articles arguing that people now inhabits a world of distraction and no longer pay their dues to being “fully in the moment”; that the quality of human communications have degraded; or worse, that we have become organic robots. All thanks to the technologies besieging us. Some of these arguments are rhetorical, some scientific. Most are consistent with what my senior argued, all of which I must admit will not disagree.

However, I think such arguments are partially valid at best. Firstly, only little of of these arguments are comprehensive enough. They are overfocusing on limited aspects of both technological features and behaviors. Secondly, they speak in terms of increase and decrease. I don’t think that because some university have discovered that, for example, texting and social networking abuses have decreased working memory accuracy that we should abandon our smartphones behind. Not that these negative findings are erroneous, but any for-or-against decision on the issue is missing the point. They are missing other changes outside the continuum.

Some of the technology-driven changes that have been taking places, are taking places, and potentially will take place are too valuable for us to even slightly interrupt, let alone terminated. On individual level, simple blogging acts have begun to go epidemic in bringing out the good, if not the best, in us. See sites like PostSecrets, ThingsWeForget, and ICanRead; and if they are not evident enough, see where the links takes you. The all-around take-and-give among users should overwhelm you. Where we were once learn things intensively, people are learning more diversively. This is not the case of better-or-worse. At least, it is premature for us to say so. Just because we call them users, it doesn’t make them less human.

Organizations whose missions are to channel and sync netizens’ acts of goodwill --like CreativeCommons, One.org, Wikipedia (happy birthday, by the way), OpenData, Innocentive, AcademicEarth, TED-- have begun to show promising results and more. They are educating the world, leveraging it to healthier state, and making extreme poverty its history --or at least they’re trying to (and that’s already more than hopeful).

Having said that, I think the negative findings that we encounter would serve better as control signs to keep our multilinear changing civilization in-check. As the world gets more and more connected, learning-by-doing is happening on a global scale. The world is at its most ambiguous, it’s scary, it’s exciting. Though all possibilities of horrors are ever more highlighted, so are the beauties (the Wikileaks case should best illustrate this). And any snap judgment we make about our world, and our humanity, is nothing more than negligence.

What Was I Thinking?

2011-01-02T21:04:00.007+07:00

Why Some Power Tools Have Slipped My Mind

There was a scene in Creation (the movie) where Darwin was writing the The Origin Of Species manuscript. I think the scene is sexy. One, it’s a writing scene. Two, it looks very antique (old, brown, and slow –it’s quite a hazy way of describing, I know, but that’s the best I can come up with for now). This being around 1800s, writing involved paper after paper being individually hand-written. In that scene, Darwin put a stack of just recently written paper and some leather bound notebooks into a small shelf. After a while, something about that shelf made sense about something else.

The shelf, if I remember it correctly, was a CPU high (which CPU model is beside the point) and were divided into several compartments. Each compartment would fit a chapter-thick of papers and several leather-bound notebooks, into which they are slipped horizontally –as the scene depicted. I suppose the number of shelf compartments would at least equal the number of chapters a book would eventually amount to. It was so systematic it was enlightening.

Then it hit me that the interface logic of a Windows Explorer (or the likes of it, if you use other operating systems, I suppose) is consistent with that shelf. Such a shelf would enable a writer to arrange his/her raw materials. He (I’m going to skip “/she” and “/her” for efficiency reason, no sexism intended) could, from very early phase of writing, decide to which compartment some notebooks or scribbled napkins should go and move them to another one he thought more fitting. When progressing to writing a particular chapter, the system would save him the time being distracted by data noise. And after having done with the working chapter he could place it in the same space where its raw materials were, where it reasonably belong. This is outlining brought to life.

After all the years using Explorer (yes, by the way, I used that operating system), it is only then that I realized how beautifully intuitive the software really is. I have been moving contents in and out of folders only for the sake of retrieval, or worse, a sense of visual neatness (as the number of times I go nuts finding a file would indicate). Putting my self in Darwin’s shoes (which by the way I have no idea what they look like) I realized how in my hands those features have been no more than routines, no longer power tools as they are. This is not yet mentioning copying, cutting, pasting, and renaming.

I see two reasons why I have been missing this out. One, Explorer’s file size is so miniscule compared to the total OS package that I don’t feel I paid for it (some of us don’t even pay for the whole thing). It is as without price as it is without value. In fact, that it has any value at all never crosses my thoughts. I don’t know how much Darwin’s manuscript shelf cost. It might not did him much since he was quite the gentleman of wealth of his time. But I do suspect that the shelf was a stand-alone purchase. It didn’t ship out with any stack of blank papers (or do Darwin typed them? When was typewriter invented, by the way? --“wikipedia-lazybum”). That alone must have made the shelf almost impossible to go unnoticed. It was after all a stationery relevant to one of Darwin’s main business: writing.

Two, unlike Darwin, (and all writers and/or thinkers of similar age of time) I deal with my data, digital as they are, symbolically. There’s no touching involve during the interaction, aside from mousing around. Darwin literally got his hands on his. The manuscript shelf, I suppose, had proxied his mental processes --categorizing, reasoning, problem solving, etc-- extended to direct physical actions, making his thoughts way clearer and thus richer than ours. Imagine that: thinking and moving, fully synchronized, during complex problem solving, multiplying the quality of its output.

I wonder how much of this is responsible in making The Origin such a beautiful opus, both as a scientific insights and a prose.

Maybe it has slipped my mind that Darwin’s manuscript shelf has evolved into Explorer we're more than familiar with. If I’m right, that means a degree of negligence may have cost us some amount of valuable quality of thinking --and thoughts-- for quite some time. I think it is worthy of our time to look back and retrace what and how ancient tools have enabled the crafty, creative minds before us. If living up to their standard is too much, a little copy-catting will not hurt.
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I Should Have Signed Thank You. Who Knows.

2010-11-30T01:03:00.004+07:00

Dear whoever stumbles upon this note,

Last Saturday at a coffeeshop, when I was preoccupied drawing a compulsive artwork (still not even close to finish by now), my two accompanying friends handed me a small card. Written on one side was a short message on Indonesian, on the other English. It says (something like this): “Hi, I’m deaf and mute… and bla bla bla… souvenir… bla bla bla… helping… bla bla bla… Rp.20.000… bla bla bla. Thank you” (bla-bla-blas added by the nonmultitasking, preoccupied author).

All I got is deaf and mute. I looked higher to my friends about to ask what it was and, to my surprise, found a girl sitting near us, apparently have had joined our table. Still preoccupied with some elements of the previous compulsion, my attention-limited mind tried to made the math of the situation: she is the deaf-mute, the bag on the her right arm are the souvenirs, priced for Rp.20.000.

I have been a fan of human intelligence --creativity, arts, tool invention, culture, and the sorts-- for as long as I can remember. Language has been on the top of the list, and sign language and the culture than come along with it have been on a reserved special spot.

Seventeen years ago, lack of learning materials, I learned sign language watching a TV series Reasonable Doubt. I made my own picture dictionary, illustrating more than 100 words the main characters --the deaf lawyer and signing detective-- signed. It brushed my drawing skill more it did my language skill. I got my first sign language dictionary at a used book store. It was in an extreme, inappropriate condition when I found it and is still in my over protective possession, more as a memento than a resource. Come Amazon.com and I made sign language dictionary one of my earliest purchases. Come YouTube and the earliest search I made was sign language. To present day, I subscribe to more than thirty channels belong to deaf users, checking up on a regular basis for the stories they have to share and songs they interpret (awesome stuff!).

I have stumbled upon numerous friends who found signing is interesting and asked me to teach them. Even after convincing them that I was nowhere near a qualified source, they still managed to coerce me to say yes. And so I shared them what I know. The self-guilt of teaching them false signs and grammar I paid by putting in their heads the amazing human mind and the culture that goes naturally with it that the deaf people possess. I made sure they get it, and so when their days of finding sign language interesting have passed, I can assure myself that the days they realized the deafs are amazing will not.

In the coffee shop, all I got is “deaf and mute” and I was excited. Very excited. But my introversion kicked in hard. I muted (that’s a error right there, but in the spirit of just-get-on-with-it, I’m getting on with this). I didn’t say anything. All I did to show I’m interested was taking out Rp.20.000 and take one of the souvenirs (it’s now tied to my shoulder bag). She moved along after honoring us with a gratitude gesture, not a sign. I should have signed thank you, but I didn’t. The way home that night was filled with me being unable find excuse for my being stunted.

Had I signed that ‘thank you’, this note would have been about me having a conversation with a deaf girl. With my limited signing skill, we would have probably written our talks back and forth with my iPad. Wouldn’t that make a much more interesting note, better yet, an iPad advertisement? (nah, the conversation alone would be as much interesting). Even if the whole deaf and mute thing was a scam, me being duped would still make a much more interesting story than this one.

I’m planning to go back to the place, hoping for the luck of bumping into her again. Chances are slim, so I’m asking you, whoever you are who kindly reading this note, a favor. If you happen to be around Pondok Indah Mall and got approached by a deaf and mute girl who fits my story, please tell her that I would like to learn everything there is about sign language and deaf mind WITH ALL DUE RESPECTS, please emphasis on: WITH ALL DUE RESPECTS. Tell her my name is adih and my cell number is 0818120241 and I’m not dangerous.

If I’m lucky, then you will be reading a note about me learning sign language and deaf mind from a deaf girl.

Anyway, thank you for reading.
Sincerely

Adih

Curious Tone

2010-09-30T21:35:00.001+07:00

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Last week I met an old friend. There were times when we were colleagues, shared times, and hopes. We were a team and most people thought so, too. But we shared time less and less especially after I went on schooling. His career took an enlightenment turn and he sky-rocketed to be one of the most important person in the company he worked for. He got much smarter, too. He was practically a genius the last time I remember. I didn't think anyone can get smarter than that. Apparently he can.

But our meet did not leave a pleasant impression. It was a memorable reunion not in the way I imagined. He took an interest on the book I was carrying that day. I mentioned I don't understand much of what the book was saying, and he probe my lost-ness. That's the point where the conversation took an unpleasant turn, at least for me.

He answered my questions with some sort of anger tone. It was as if he was disappointed that I asked such questions. Worst, I feel like I was not worth his time. There was no trace of the familiar warmth of friendship from what was going on there. I feel like I'm a stranger to him. He kept going on and on about how I understand things in a limited, singular way (being aggressed aside, most of what he said were, I think, true).

It still confused me to this day that he lashed out. He lost me somewhere in the middle. I remember thinking during his impatient speech how there was still a chance for my day to be saved if I just bail out. I can't remember if my day started good or bad, but it didn't matter. I didn't want to be there. A seat away would do. Just not there. Then someone interrupted us, and he was distracted. That was my exit.

I never got my questions answered. Most of his answers were more of half-way analogies. Even without the interruption, I don't think his answer would be enlightening.

Maybe he lashes. Maybe he lashed out on me. Maybe he lashed out on me because I dissapointed him. Maybe it was just my luck. Maybe it just wasn't his best day and he was not himself. Maybe if it had been someone else, not me, he would have restrained himself. Maybe there was a trace of our friendship in him after all --that his lashing out on me, and not on anyone else, was because there I was, finally, a familiar face. Maybe it was an honor. Maybe I have been doing the same thing. Maybe it was none of the above. Maybe I think too much (and this went on as he was 'enlightening' me).

It's amazing how a little raise of tone is capable to undo an established bond. If so, maybe pulling it down would redo it, and that the next time around, he and I will make better use of time.
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Universally Preferable Sound?

2010-06-24T14:13:00.002+07:00

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Saya bertanya pd @pbadi #bunyi. Jawabannya saya kompilasi di sini. menarik. Enjoy! :-)

PERTANYAAN:
@pbadi Tanya, boleh? Mungkinkah bunyi tertentu secara umum (mungkin bahkan universal) lebih disukai dibanding bunyi lain? #bunyi

JAWABAN @pbadi
tweet 1:
Mnarik skali ptanyaan mas. Jwbn saya adlh mungkin. Namun yg jls, ada kriteria bunyi yg dpt ditolerir. #bunyi

Tweet 2:
Maksud ditolerir di sini adalah berada pd ambang penginderaan. #bunyi

Tweet 3:
Pd properti frekuensi, ambang pnginderaan kita adlh 20Hz-20kHz. Pd batas bawah & atas bs jd kita tdk nyaman mdengarnya. #bunyi

Tweet 4:
Jika rendah sekali akan trdengar buzzing dan shaking, jika trll tinggi memekakkan telinga. #bunyi

Tweet 5:
Jika rendah sekali akan trdengar buzzing dan shaking, jika trll tinggi memekakkan telinga. #bunyi

Tweet 6:
Jg tjd pd properti amplitudo, trlalu kecil tdk trdengar, tll bsr maka tkanan udaranya bs mrusak membran telinga >sakit. #bunyi

Tweet 7:
Tp yg saya smpkan itu adlh bunyi tunggal > satu pitch, satu waktu, energi dan timbre yg konstan. #bunyi

Tweet 8:
Saya percaya bhw asosiasi ekstra bunyi sgt mpengaruhi disukai/tdknya bunyi. #bunyi

Tweet 9:
Dan yg sgt penting adlh kesesuaian dgn konteks. #bunyi

Legend Time Out

2010-06-24T02:22:00.002+07:00

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There's an old song of with, I believe, strange lyrics (I don't know the title, but I bet Google does) : How much is that doggie in the window? The one that's waggling its tail. How much is that doggie in the window? I do hope that doggie for sale.

I'm thinking: That's scary. I'm lucky I got my taste set on some legend, like The Beatles. But then I'm curious whether it's possible The Beatleshood aren't always I Will, or Black Bird, or In My Life, or I Am The Walrus. Put aside that they are The Fab Four and some peculiar numbers emerge. Though not exactly some "doggies in the window", they are peculiar nonetheless. Michelle, my belle, these are words that go together well (I mean, really?).

Then there's I'll Get You. I can just imagine a weird, if not disturbing, scene. Paul and John, probably on either's flat, or some studio (not just some studio, obviously). One grabbed a guitar, the other followed. Having stumbled upon some chords, John pitched Paul some line, "How about: Imagine I'm in love with. It's easy cause I know. I've imagined I'm in love with you many many times before." And Paul went, "Perfect!"

Where's the (fill in some Killer Beatles here)? . But then again, when one is preconditioned with their legendary status, it's easy to take up all the songs as the works of legends, accordingly. Therefore, despite the recent enlightenment, I will from time to time find myself being ambushed by, say, firecamp acoustic, or some FM radio surprise, or the shuffling of an MP3 player (mine's Samsung, by the way, not iPod --I don't know why I wrote that), I bet the one hundred bucks I don't have that I would sing along, with eyes closed.
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On Pixar's Day & Night

2010-06-21T22:33:00.000+07:00

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* Good opening...
* Heey, nice 2D-3D combo. That's new.
* Cooool, awesome with the metaphors!
* Whoooaaw! what a story!
* All that and a message,too? Geeeniuuuss!!!
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Pixar Keeps Getting Biggar

2010-06-19T12:57:00.005+07:00

John Lasseter once declined Disney’s proposal to produce Toy Story sequel for DVD release --Disney-style second-class rate manufacture. He argued that Pixar has only one reason in minds to produce sequels: better stories. Toy Story 3 shows they still deliver that promise. After fifteen years since the first time the gang introduced themselves and you’ve got a friend in me still ring true.

(warning: spoiler inside)

When Pixar-Disney released the original Toy Story in 1995, I bought the ticket merely on the ground that it has a Walt Disney brand on it --a gesture of a loyal customer. Disney was on the mid chapter of its downfall. Its animated features were at best doing okay in box office race (Hello Pocahontas!). Their exploitation of cable TV downgraded them to mediocrity. Disney was in desperate hours and pixie dust just wouldn’t cut it. Who would have thought that Disney’s decision to outsource Pixar to bring the magic back to the kingdom would work like a charm? Maybe not even Disney and Pixar themselves realized at the time that two magic lamps are better than one.

Picture source: Gloaming and Dawn

Toy Story is such a tease I want to take a peek behind Pixar’s curtain. When the DVDs were finally released, I exhausted repetitively all their special feature contents. I take up readings on anything Pixar-related (I tell you, movie magazines, printing nothing but trivia, are the poorest source of all). Business industries, it turns out, can never get enough lesson on creativity and innovation from these storyheads (only cool stuffs are in these articles!). Pixar office setup: it’s practically a brainstormer in bricks and stones! Pixar people: They’re Donald Ducks in the flesh. Pixar approach: simulating face expression, camera movements, hair-fur-feather, lighting, water. They make experiments look like millennium party. It’s in their credo that every detail is worth sweating happily.

Since the release of Monster, Inc. I take Pixar’s next movie project way too seriously. I went through the upcoming of each release with the anxiety that the day Luxo’s light is dimming has come and Pixar can no longer keep up with the growing number of audiences’ inflating expectation. I’d feel terrible if that happens (I think I sound creepy). Time and time, from The Incredibles to Up, I stand absolutely corrected, which then leaves me with the guilt of ever having the nerve to lose faith in the first place (again with the creepy part).

David A. Price ended his biographical take on the company, in his book Pixar Touch, by likening it to teenagers taking off from their adolescent stage. One probable outcome of such situation is having stripped off of their playfulness and gradually head on to stagnancy. In other word, it’s Disney all over again. Price pointed out that Pixar’s next challenge is to not let that happen. It has been two years since the book is first released and Pixar --to borrow Prices’ perspective-- is stepping up to young adulthood. I am among those groups of people who are curious of how the real Pixar story will unfold.

In this third installment of Toy Story, subliminally or not, Pixar sets their first and oldest son Andy off to college. The plot: The judgment day that every toy dreads has come --the day they turned into throw-aways. (There is indeed always a stronger plot to grow for any sequel Pixar wishes to produce). The Story: the gang learned about the truth of how their Andy feels of them via a bumpier ride --unlike the prequels, direct contact with real-live throw-aways. The end: Andy tenderly bequeathed his story friends to a child neighbor that merits his own level of narrative masterdom.

Pixar’s specialty --solid plots, body of story that rocks, an end rich of grace-- are all there in the right places. If anything, those are evidences that Pixar are nowhere losing their touch. Such craftsmanship cannot be an accident. And for hypothesis sake, Andy’s elegant decision might clue you in something about Pixar’s actual development report card. A good apple comes from a good trees, right? I hope so. If it does, Price’s optimistic scenario of adult Pixar may have started to take place after all. That’s great to know.

After the last line of the credit title left the screen I let out a long exhale, once again being ever glad to be proven wrong. Cars 2 is next in the pipeline and already my heart starts racing.
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Houdini Respati

2010-06-11T10:10:00.002+07:00

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I'm in a friend's office by myself, copying some documents. Finished, I was to get out, but the door wouldn't pushed open. The office setup was such that some security guard must have missed spotting me and locked the door. My phone battery is dead, and I'm without a charger, with no one to call. My take on the situation was to distract myself with some work until someone came down.

It was 20 minutes later when I was sitting down at some coffee shop having a conversation with a friend when it suddenly hit me, "How did I get out?" Then I remembered. My other phone rang, it was a friend asking me out for a coffee (I said okay). I walked up to the door and pulled it open.
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Iron Man 2 > Iron Man 1 (FALSE)

2010-05-01T18:07:00.005+07:00

(picture source: web)

Plot. Nothing particularly new in Iron Man 2 and it does not deliver its plot in higher speed, either. Mr. Stark already did his soul-searching in the first installment (and I get that he needed to), but on this second installment he insists us to see his second kind of search. That’s just one self-centered Iron Man too many, in my opinion.

Enemy. Insignificant: a muscled genius (rare, but not a banging kind of surprise) and loud mouth moneybag team up to build a squadron of Iron-Man-wannabe (again?). America apparently had more enemy on its own soil than abroad.

Casts and Scenes. Johansson’s take on the sequel was cosmetic, at best (talk about under-empowering your human resource). Bettany didn’t voice enough Jarvis (too bad). Iron Man-War Machine brawling scene: that’s just jock fight in metal suits. Not even Rourke with his newly-found signature gave Iron Man 2 a better taste. Stan Lee was mistaken for Larry King (you may want to double-check on this one for me): that’s cheesy, even for you, Mr. Lee.

What’s Left. Two good things about Iron Man 2: (1) Director Jon Favreau played good hapless tertiary sidekick (how’s that for irony?), and; (2) AC/DC scratched good axes for the soundtrack, I actually want to buy the CD (look at me with my 80’s rock lingo).
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April Fooling

2010-04-13T18:46:00.004+07:00

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Halfway through March I made a plan to make April a month of fool as I plan to ‘let loose on April Fools’ and I mean to do it the whole month instead of just on its first day. So far I think overdid it.

Last Saturday I twisted my left ankle walking down a stairs on my way to reflexology parlor (how was that for irony?). And that wasn’t even verbally expressed just now. “I twisted my ankle” made it sound as if it was an action of full commitment on my part and a consent from my ankle (it was not, on both account). The foot immediately swelled, and some veins that previously weren’t there emerged, crisscrossing here and there (I saw this as it happened. Scary stuff, I tell you), and making a lot of worries.*

But my friend and I proceeded with the original plan. At the parlor, I made a specific request for the masseus in charge not to make any physical contact whatsoever with the lower part of my left leg. He, instead, saw my circumstances as a challenge. He offered an extra free service to fix --to borrow his exact term-- the problem (“maybe when fixed, he’ll make a great comment to the boss and give me a raise”). He made this two-hand gesture of one hand twisting in circular direction and the other to its opposite. I definitely don’t want to fill the blank with my left leg, so I kindly declined --with excuses, now looking back, must have sounded stupid at best, sissy for sure. I came out the parlor safe. No salaries were raised out of that transaction. I limped on.

The sad part about all this is that when I fell, I wasn’t doing any reading. If I did, by now I would just collecting numerous i-told-you-so’s. That’s just plain predictable. No harm done, so to speak. Since the whole ordeal didn’t involved a book of any sort, me falling is just plain stupid. I let loose too much in April.

It has been almost 72 hours since the twist, and any moment now the foot will claim its original size, the joint will soon pivoting the foot multidirectionally freely as before, and I will walk normal again. Most important, there will be no more surprise jolt of pain during sleeps (the body is playing April pranks on me, this way.

So I can’t believe I’m saying this: I’m gonna miss limping.

PS: * My friend, who had the idea of having R&R to the parlor in first place, made a lot of these worrying fusses. He kept asking if I was okay, which I answered that I would be --which didn’t meet quite the minimum quality of response required to decide if we proceed with or cancel the ‘massage project’ (so much for concern).
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A Lala For Me

2010-04-06T21:04:00.008+07:00

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If I copy paste here all online articles (and while we’re at it, offline, too) that put harsh words on iPad, I will say “to all of the above: they’re true.” Still, I would definitely get my hands on one unit. If you’re the kind of person that get ideas all over places (everyone is), with the on-demand need to jot and/or scribble down all the things that cross your mind, and memory no better than an elephant, you’ll need pocketsize notebooks (those classic paper ones). If they fail to help you organize, or worse, retrieve your notes (all of which are rather long), you’ll need a small laptop to go around with. And if the thought of your ideas vaporized while waiting your laptop wasting minutes booting up (which later keeps you from turning it on in the first place, and your ideas get vaporized anyway), you’ll pray for a device with instant power on. (when it comes to a gadget, instant on is like a quick hello reply; you don't like it delayed). So far, Apple is the only company that offers the solution. So "no-multitasking" or "no file management" or "consumer-not-creative-gadget" sentiment aside, the iPad had me at its ‘power’ hello. The 150,000 and paid and free apps, the 10-hour battery run, and even the multitouch gesture interface, or even its iBook (should I be lucky enough to access) are just added bonus.

One of the wrongest things people think of me is that I read a lot. I read only quite a few, not to mention slow. I am now without the luxury of hours and hours of reading time. But one day I discovered that I have countless of 15-minute breaks every day (mostly during walks from one place to another). It’s been several years that I use them up for reading. At other times, you will not find me do that. That’s the truth. So with Lala at hands, to add to my reading habit, I would also browse, write, even draw, at any 15-minutes that comes my way. That would be way nice.

I’ve read somewhere that rational decision is an illusion. That when you find something, you make instant decision based on your emotional impulse and then find arguments to justify that decision. Who am I kidding? The iPad is just sick pretty and I am just too stupid to deny one. And should Google or Microsoft or HP or Dell or anyone of them throws something more delectable, I will most probably convert (but would still name it Lala) and find some brand new excuses (but I promise I make them original).
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Heroes, Copycat, Hobbies, Resolution. Happy New Year

2009-12-26T15:38:00.004+07:00

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Among so many unquestionably valid definitions of the word heroes, my favorite would be this shaky one that is I formulated myself: “the people you find worth copy-catting.”

My first is, and I’m more than just doing my “son” job, is my father. Very early --so early I can’t remember when it started-- I wanted to be a physician very much like he is. Also very early I was distracted into other dreams by several other heroes. This is not by any chance means that the my-father-the-hero day day is long gone, rather that he finds his way of being my hero --as many fathers do-- in more infiltrating, creeping way. The rest of my heroes are a bit fuzzy in sequence, but I’m making that attempt to sort them out anyway.

One among of the next is Pak Tino Sidin; and I was a kindergarten brat. Every week TVRI aired his show, in which he taught us drawing. He drew animals, plants, people, buildings. He started his masterpieces by drawing outlines with black markers and finish-touchedit with some elegant crayoning. My father loves Monet, but I think Pak Tino is the deserving genius. Monet is, at best, a stranger, let alone Pak Tino’s equal. Unlike Monet’s, as each line was drawn, Pak Tino’s pictures have stories, a tale which he told ever excitingly; Monet’s don’t. So I aspire to be an artist and my works made their way into a gallery: the practise room of dr. Anwar Jusuf’s (this is, of course, evidence of Pak Tino’s triumph over Monet). I don’t remember when, but some other heroes came in my way and Pak Tino disappeared from the horizon. I was, in my defense, distracted. I still draw from time to time. I do that for the unbearable thought of losing little talent of mine.

The same TV channel --the only TV channel at that age-- aired Mork and Mindy, starring Robin Williams. In the show Mork is an alien sent to study the social way of us Earthlings, and to report to his chief Orson telepathically on a regular basis (This synopsis is of course is no way made aware to my limited understanding of the time). Williams, however, has a particularly stretchy face and a pantomimic motor control that can make my young persuadable mind a good loud and hard laugh Nano-nano puched my nana-nana guts. And that sets my heart to a comic career. (Williams, later I found out, was among his own scriptwriter, and Mork and Mindy is not just a clown show; and I'm really glad about it)

Years to come I was to encounter other colors of comedy from the likes of Jerry Lewis, Jerry Seinfeld, Adam Sandler, David Letterman, Steve Martin, and George Carlin; and not in any way Jim Carrey made my list. During these years I learned the genre of stand-up comic, and that all these names on my list started their career as one. Further digging enlightened me that these comic population became the way they are because they are great skit writer. Writing. By this time, I was in high school.

Afterward I saw TV in a different light (in a different light as a high-schooler normally be) and found one particular capturing serial, The West Wing. Setup in the west wing --as titled-- of The White House, the series tells the story of the House’s daily hassles; how the senior staff aid The President to juggle between the nation’s competing policy proposals in addition to micromanage their personal lives. Wing is noticeably the romance of politics at its best (and that idea is quite the most original at the time). In the Wing politics is merely a background, it’s the drama that made their focal appearance and, definitely add to that, the comedy. The drama is inspiring but the comedy is the jackpot. Never before crossed my mind that you can bend comedy like that; that life in any forms is worth laughing at. In fact, director and scriptwriter Aaron Sorkin lead a double life (or tripple) as a comedian. That’s good news: that I can add writing to comedy. That’s two peas in a pod. Wait. That’s not the right line (How am I doing so far?)

After so many years, and so many profession to copycat, they do turn out to be merely my hobbies. They gradually stepped back into a far background on the picture of the things I wish to do --which even now is still hazy at best. Then the multimedia culture came, so did the internet, not to mention YouTube. With that I ended up rekindling all my old heroes down to their cyber bones: their bios, their clips, their libraries, their fans (a wide varieties of communities of fan bases). Now they’re back. Maybe still as hobbies, but with brand new kicks. Talk about a kick-start, it this new years resolution that I’m attempting to tell stories and comedies (This is of course aside from the current jobs I do. Nevertheless, anything can happen).

Best of all,
Happy New Year :-)

One Of The Type

2009-12-20T05:40:00.008+07:00

People have their own distinctive ways to inhale their pleasures. Some people sing, some dance (some other do martial arts --which to some extent, I think are dances, too), some draw, some do yoga, not to mention some others would come up with other means that may never even remotely cross our minds. Some are more enviable than others, like those musically-talented bastards who are lucky enough to be able to explore the beauty of sounds. Some are puzzlingly ironic, like those whose impulse are just to give and give and give (from which they --ironically to their admitting-- get priceless happiness). In all their forms, These means bring overwhelming feelings, even magic, to their beholders. Everyone has one, at the very least. And each act, is a breath of fresh air.

Me, I type. Always at random time (and for this I’m always on stand-by mode), some characters in movies, authors whose books I’m reading, artists whose songs creep through my black earphones, mentors whose companions I enjoy, or even a slurry, sloppy, reckless friends in casual encounters manage to pull some seriously magic words out their hats. When those random-timing magic words make their appearances, I type them down.

There is a hidden musical properties in typing, noticeable when bumping to commas, periods, exclamation, etc. What was already beautiful in speeches, I want to hear them also in keyboard-races clicks. When the rhythm of the speech and the clicks are in-sync, some invisible connections are made (and human beings, I suspect, are just suckers for any kind of connections). No one would speak my sentiment better than comedian Jerry Lewis does in his classic 1963 movie Who’s Minding The Store (It still cracks me every time I see it. It is also possible that I fall for typing when the first time seeing him do this when I was 12).

Source: YouTube
Channel: orsobruco

Particularly on this I’m quite possessive; I say no to copy-pasting. The processes matter much more than the end results so I don’t want any operating system --Windows, Mac, nor Linux, not even the upcoming Google’s Chromium-- does such an errand for me. Hobby is never about efficiency. It’s about the guilty pleasure of redundancy (although I still think that backspace key is just the greatest gift).

The fingers. What a sight. These moves are my personal equivalent of dancing. In fact, these are dances. For us the introverts, us the reserved, our frantic fingers moving under the choreography of ideas are the closest thing we got to dancing. Don’t be fooled with our calm postures. Those fingers, if you look closely, shows what’s in the head, and what in the head is rock ‘n roll. And about the rest of our posture: there is no sight more fundamental in gender than a male species completely absorbed with their toys (boys will be boys).

So far, what stands before me and my finger dance is the time it takes for a computer booting up (Wouldn’t be nice if laptop just “blink on” the second we push the power button?). I heard that Google’s upcoming OS Chromium, aside from an operating system with its online magic workings, will offer immediate boot-up feature. Until then, when over-timely boot-up is not preferred, the already available qwerty cellphone will just have to do. At least the two thumbs can have their days, and two out ten is not that bad of a deal after all.

PS:
* picture source: i forgot --with the hope for forgiveness from the owner of the picture)
* here's one of the typing-frenzy
.

Minding The Avatar

2009-12-18T22:12:00.004+07:00

(picture source: www.collider.com)

Quite a few years have passed that Director James Cameron disappeared from cinematic gig and almost made Project Avatar another movie myth. On this holiday season Cameron allows anticipating viewers to unwrap this long awaited gift box of his.

On its background, Avatar is a corporate interplanetary mining expedition, that when found out its richest mine site is the very habitat of the planet Pandora, threatened to go south. This means that its inhabitant relocation plan approach may either be military or science-backed in nature (it’s a toss-up). Avatar revolves around the latter, in which a team of science is on the mission to persuade the natives --the Na’vi-- to migrate from the mine site. To do so, the team utilizes DNA-based-engineered Navi-Human hybrids as vehicles, so to speak, on which a human can live through by the process of neural sync-ing, a biological version of virtual reality ride (That’s where the term "avatar "comes in, in case you’re wondering. Very genius!).

Through these hybrids the team attempts to diffuse with (or infiltrate, if you prefer the military lingo rather than the sociology) the Na’vi. As light was shed to the military team that its scientific counterpart falls for the ecological nature of the planet, they begin to realize that their bonus package is in jeopardy and thus take a hostile initiative. And so the Human-Na’vi conflict goes. The details --the characters, the drama, the visual effects (which practically is within the whole movie)-- are definitely things worth of you experiencing them yourselves, instead of through any strangers’ words.

The plot makes Avatar multi-faceted*. It is 50% sociology, with a 5% touch of biology, another 5% taste of evolution, 20% pack of action to ridiculously kindle your eyes, and --thank god-- only 0.001% romance (but with quite a delectable make-out scene). But to me the most capturing portion is the 20% of the mind science: the neural sycing of the avatars (a scientific cosmetic that Bruce Willis’s The Surrogates picked up in miniscule size) and the people-animal-plant integrated neural networks of the Pandorans. The notion that the planet is literally one whole organism is quite a tease, or at the very least, geopolitically relevant to the current global issue (like I said, quite a tease). That’s 100.001% in total but who’s counting**

Cameron has been known to having a big interest in science (check his IMDB records) and this science-fantasy blend in Avatar is quite a dance. It is what you would have in a hybrid channel of Discovery-National Geographic-HBO. This approach may just be the next standard for Hollywood flicks in the coming years, and setting a new movie production standard has always appropriately been Cameron’s main specialty (remember The Abyss, Terminator 2, and --yuck-- Titanic). Cameron's cinematography experiments during Avatar production, too, have been a trend on its own, a googling adventure worth trying.

Avatar speaks for itself that during his absence, Cameron had been doing some real out-of-the 'Hollywood'-box thinking. It takes 15 years to make, 2.5 hours to witness, but potentially years and years ahead to linger. Suffice to say that this season that Cameron came back home to Hollywood land, he hits a homerun.

* Cameron's Titanic --still isn't my favorite movie-- is bi-faceted: history and romance.
** All percentage estimation are roughly and recklessly mine

PS: Are those Jake Sully's atrophy legs real?

Note To Self

2009-02-16T23:13:00.003+07:00

.
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won
(Glen Hansard)

Happy Birthday, N

2009-02-14T23:45:00.005+07:00

.
Happy birthday to you,

The bus stops, the driver smiles at you, the windows are gleaming, and there’s plenty of small change. In the row of single seats on the left, the last one is vacant as if it has your name on it, your favorite one. The bus pulls out, the lights turn green as it approaches and the guy cracking sunflower seeds gathers up the peels in a brown paper bag.

The elderly inspector doesn’t ask to see your ticket, just tips his hat and in a very pelasant voice, wishes you a nice day.

And it will be a nice day. Because it’s your birthday. You’re bright, you’re pretty, and you have your whole life ahead of you. For more stops and you’ll pull the cord, and the driver will stop, just for you.

You’ll get off the bus, no one will jostle you, and the door won’t close till you’ve stepped away. And the bus will leave, the passengers will be happy for you, and the guy with the sunflower seeds will keep waving goodbye till he’s out of sight for no reason at all.

Who needs a reason, it’s a birthday, and on birthdays nice things happen. And the puppy running towards you now will wag its tail when you touch it. When there’s a special date, even dogs can tell.

In your apartment, people will be waiting in the dark, behind the beautiful furniture the two of you chose yourselves. When you open the door, they’ll jump out and surprise you. Just the way it should be at surprise parties.

They’ll all be there, the people you’ve loved. Those closest to you, and the ones who mean the most. And they’ll bring presents that they bought or dreamt up themselves. Inspired presents, and useful things, too.

The funny ones will entertain, the smart ones will enlighten, even the melancholy ones will give a genuine smile. The food will be amazing, then they’ll serve stawberries and top it off with a vanilla milkshake from the best place in town.

They’ll play a Keith Jarrett disc and everyone will listen, they’ll play a Satie record and nobody will feel sad. And the ones who are on their own won’t feel alone tonight, and nobody will ask ‘Milk or cream?’ because they all know one another by now.

In the end they’ll leave, and the ones you wanted to kiss you will kiss you, and the ones you didn’t will just shake your hand. And he’ll be the only one who’ll stay behind, the man you live with, kinder and gentler than ever.

If you want , youll make love or he’ll massage your body with oil, specially bought in an old bedouin shop. You only have to ask and he’ll dim the halogen light, and you’ll sit there embraced, waiting for dawn.

And on that magical night, I’ll be there too, drinking my vanilla milkshake, and smiling a genuine smile. And before I go, if you want --I’ll kiss you. And if not, I’ll just shake your hand.

From: Four Letter Words; Entry by Etgar Keret (translated by Miriam Shlesinger)
PS: For Nip.

The World Without Love

2008-12-11T12:43:00.003+07:00

Note:
This entry serves a link to a question someone asked. So pardon that this goes into the blog without context. Think of this as note to self rather than a broadcast. Regarding the content, I do not guarantee its validity.

A collections of neuroscience, anthropology, and, in fact, (evolutionary) psychology researches have co-confirmed that the experience we call love (romantic love included) is a by-product of evolution (that's a mild way of saying it's an accident).

Evolution theory stresses that living beings' ultimate goal is to triumph a survival competition. In achieving it, various species developed mating strategies based on their physiological structures and environmental circumstances. One famous strategy is hormone-releasing.

Some hormones*, like dopamine and adrenaline, are so dominant for survival, they function in numerous survival acts. Among other, in danger detection and attracting potential mates. Both hormones works in intense entanglement that these hormones-combo evolved a new set of emotion functions (thrill, excitement, sad, surprise, etc); which revised the old --you may add, "bland"-- mating strategy. Around the same time the hominids evolved a new cognitive functions: a more complex consciousness (included the capability of a species 'reading' others' thoughts).

This combination --revised mating strategy and consciousness-- to make the story short, evolved into love experience.

What would a world be without love? Your question implies that 'everyone no longer experiences love, right? I think that If love disappears in the future, the three systems will cease to co-function (e.g. consciousness will cease work while mating). Without consciousness to relate to it, we don't feel love. We can't be sad about the absence of love because we are not aware of of its absence. Actually we won't feel a thing. We probably will not be aware that we don't feel a thing.

Note:
*) Remember hormones will encourage or discorage certain functions --cognition and motor-- which altogether we will call behavior.

(Un) Natural Born Reader

2006-12-05T07:17:00.001+07:00

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Less than a week ago, in the middle of a dinner, a friend of mine told me that another friend of mine told her that he thought I have changed, socially, so to speak. According to this vague friend, the old me (of whom he apparently prefers) would have routinely joined any nearby herd, tagged along updating myself with some new buzzing gossips, and cracked some loud hillarious jokes, not to mention did things for reason of madness and spontaneity alone. The present me, as my friend put it, would only sit silently, reading a book, and being ignorant of the surrounding. I don’t know for a fact whether he was regretting that I turned into an inadaptive self-isolating alien or expressing sadness for losing a hip friend. I do know he put an emphasis on reading.

On All Radar

This week alone, I have so far accumulated comments about my reading habit from six different people. These aren’t people who ask what I read, but question my reading behavior. This is a breaking record considering today (when I write this sentence) is only Wednesday. I feel a bit skidded off the main track of normalcy. There should be some perspective to put me back in the ‘Regular Joe’ category and then feel relief.

The first approach I was drawn to use was to point some finger to someone else. I read averagely 300 pages a week, while my sister does 300 in just two days, and she appears to does so without much efforts. That should say something about being normal. But then again, it could be that none of us is normal; and that text consumption was just in our book-crazed genes --the Jusuf Gene (though she has more of it). This point-finger approach just doesn’t work.

This one I think is the right one. Back in college, much more time to read was available. I can easily left the books in my backpack untouched, put off the drive to read for a while (the same drive I still have today), knowing in nighttime I would have hours uninterrupted. And for years the avid readers in me have passed his days undetected. Now, dedicated reading time is only available for less and less. Reading is now inevitably reallocated in bizzare times: for five minutes after parking in, for five minutes before parking out, for fifteen minutes to half-hour between work, for five minutes before teaching, for any time left between after buying ticket and seconds before the movie starts, etc --clearly most of them are in public space. Moreover, after we --my college friends and I-- graduated, almost none of them are around to talk to. Restoring my old suppressed habit just seemed natural --at campus included. The book bug is now on everyone’s radar.

Freak of Nature

The habit was not just restored, I think it also rocketed. It didn’t just come back, it wanted more. For some time, I think of why I read anything. I have tasted cliché-ishly arguing myself that books (and other reading sources) are the pleasant kingdom of ideas. I have retired it as a primary reason, not because it is false, but because I believe there must have been more private reason(s), one(s) that need not be philosophical.

It turned out, I realized later, that it is wasn’t only what I read that matters, but also who wrote them. I seem to make praises to the author first. Those on the contents will come next. After reading any book, I will google up its author and be amazed of who and what he/she is. This product of culture I call, and have taken for granted as, “text” is the closest thing a non-outgoing individual like me to making social contact with people with various professions and, for the lack of a stylish term, personalities. Man, did I get to meet an atheist scientists, a part-time-novelist comedian, a self-investigating illed neuroscientist, a dead ancient greek philopher, a pessimist white-trash, an ex-nun, a hired economy assassin, a historian/mathematician codebreaker, and --whom I envy the most-- a 23-year-old The Economist journalist. And list goes on. Although I make many enough friends in real life, it is my imaginative literary acquaintances who offer me varieties of life.

However, the act of reading itself, in my case, (that word “case” just turned myself in a clinical box) is something I think I need to watch very closely. When I read, I don’t just read, I read (half) outloud. By that, I pretend that the speeches that come out belong to the author whose book I am reading. I don’t ignore people when I read. I don’t ignore people at all. I may not engage in an interaction, but I don’t ignore them. Ignoring is something I don’t do. It is just I am in the middle of a conversation, too. Someone is telling me a great story though only through the sound I made myself. And the sound of speech of someone explaining something --the intonation, the pauses, the sound of consonant and vowels-- is like music. It is something worth paying hard attention to (and makes other things seems disregarded). That music is somewhat addictive. And it made my reading rate is naturally for me, as opposed to unnaturally to most others, escalating.

At some parts, if not many, of that argument I can see that I sounded weird. I began to see my friend’s point (if it was his point). He may just be right. Maybe now I am an alien.

Natural Freak of Nature (saved by a penguin)

At one night, in the middle of staring at those sky-scraping stacks of books on my table (and what a beautiful view it was!), I realized that more than half of my collections, at least the ones on that table, are Penguin books. This dominance happened without my intention. Because I don’t know much about book publishing business (matter of fact, I’m completely business-blind that even if I had all the knowledge in the world I will still have the greatest difficulities to turn them into any kind of financial triumph), my explanations on this trivial puzzle sounds highly subjective.

First, I judge the book by its cover and I probably cannot help but to stand the first in line to defy anyone who says otherwise. I say: “Good books deserves good covers, and (good) publishers realize this!” It’s probably also because that there is still left in me the graphic designers/ illustrator/ visual communicator. I couldn’t just sit still witnessing a fail art. If there is a good book hideously covered, I will make one for it --my private and better version of it-- as soon as I purchase it. Penguin makes good covers. Second, I think it’s because --and this is as I told you, highly subjective-- Nick Hornby, my favorite fiction writer seems to have a special professional association with Penguin (and I don’t fancy much fiction writing). Penguin even made him his personal website. And yes, I love covers Penguin made for all Hornby’s books (I collect them, all versions of them).

I don’t know what it is about the logo, but there’s something about that penguin with its head facing its left that I just can’t help but enjoy looking at. I don’t know what the logo means (all I know is that it was beautifully designed by an English 17th century poet by the name of Edward Young), but I know someday I’ll get it just like I mostly get any other logos. In fact, I don’t even know where the name Penguin came from (not even Wikipedia is much help). Publishing houses sometimes name themselves after the name of their founders (as in the case of Harper-Collins and McGraw-Hill, to name a few) or universities they belong to (Harvard Press, Oxford, etc). Other times, they choose a metaphor, a word or phrase, to describe how they aim to aspire their readers, like Phoenix (“We publish books that soars”). My favorite of this kind is Gramedia, of which the name has an ambiguous meaning: “The House of Books” (Grha + Media) or “The Heavy-weight Books” (Gram + Media).

The name Penguin didn’t make any association to literary culture that ring a bell to me (it’s cold, too black-and-white, etc). But I know this for sure. Penguin is the only publishing company that put a stamp saying “read more” on its back-cover. It’s perfect and there’s no better place for it. So when I’m done reading, as I close the book and still feeling happily enlightened, there it was, a message waiting the on back for me, and only me, “read more, dih.” That’s a beautiful thing to say. And so I’ll comply.

Now I think I sound sane.

Praise To Muse

2006-11-05T10:31:00.001+07:00

.
Meet Ta and Ras, two friends of mine who in one of their get-togethers several days ago got the chance to talk about music they like. The way Ta described it to me, I got the impression that the conversation started casually but somehow heated up, and even, out of nowhere, made a mention of me.

It started, so I was told, when they both listened to a playlist Ta made, during which they both were so joyful to find their taste in music resembles each other’s. In the middle of that disclosure --during one song (I’m not really clear what exactly)-- one of them said half-whispering (I’m not sure who said which, either), that she knows how I would dislike that particular song, and all songs similar to that. The other second that motion. Ras said, that she enjoyed a song mainly through its melodies, a sentiment Ta instantly agreed with. Ras said (at least I think it was Ras) that, contradict to her, I judge a song by its lyrics, a sentiment Ta (at least I think it was Ta) agreed back.

The way Ta told me, that concurrence --that “silently” disgreeing this with me is what they actually have in common-- is a big relief, freeing them from a hidden guilt, victorious even. And that conversation continued full of warmth (I’m not sure from which sentence I started exaggerating things).

Although I am happy such agreement has made their sisterhood stronger (and there may be more of that where they came from, thus I should beware), I feel I have the right to place my argument. There is a reason why I pay significant attention to the lyrics instead of merely the sound. If this doesn’t enlighten them of their premature inference about me, at least it would save my self-esteem (this, I am too, curious how).

Experience: the sounds it vibrates
It would be impossible for me not to appraise music from its melody, for sound (in which melody is included) is what music mainly offers. But music is more than sounds. A definition of music I know even includes the absence of sounds. I know Doy, my musician friend, writes songs not because he wants to make sound, but because he wants to say something. He has in him one idea at least to share. I am confident of this about him, even long before I inquired this from him. I have a feeling musicians, maybe even all of them, feels the way Doy does. Thus it is almost automatic for me to try to find out what it is they want to “say” through their songs.

Although I no longer fancy classical music, there is something about them I still marvel. It is a custom that when a composition is perfomed, it isn’t called “played”, but --I love the term-- “interpreted.” Every piece of sound, tempo, dynamic (and any other musical terms I may misuse and never understand) in that composition is a part of an interpretation of a complete experience from the perspective of the composer. Thus, there is always an explanation why a song sounds the way it does.

Pines of Rome (Pini di Roma), one of a famous compositions, was made because Ottorino Respighi, the composer, took his seeing-pine-trees experience seriously. Each of its four movement portrays the location of pine trees in the city during different parts of the day. Had people not known him a great composer, they would have said: hey, amico, I think this floral obsession is not only time wasting, but loco too. If it had been so, Italy must have been fortunate that Respighi didn't mind such comments. He made what he saw, heard, touch, smell, and taste fitted into an auditory experience. That was a lot of work.

I suspect this tendency of not taking things for granted lives not only in classical maestros, but also in every song writer, amateur and professional, though the intensity may varies. If they pour so much heart to encode such experience to a song, it is then worth decoding.

There is something rewarding about making sense of why a song sounds the way it does. When I get what the songwriter wants to “say”, I feel like I have done my part as a good listener, though I know I have no such obligation. Sometimes, when the sounds of a song make sense, I can suddenly see the genius in him (yes, or her) There are only a few flattering occasions other than to have a genius entertaining you. Moreover, understanding a genius, even from afar, is always an uplifting feeling.

Sometimes I even agree to the extreme with the resulting sounds; that they should sound the way they do, or worst, that they cannot sound any other way. Even if they can, I probably won’t let them. Thus if I find someone sets Ode to Joy his cellphone ringtone, I will have a great deal of difficulty keeping my self from saying, “Please, sir, change it with something else. You stripped it off from the grandness it so eternally deserves.”

Sometimes I fail to understand why they sound the way they do, but at least I I tried. Obviously, I give a damn about sounds more than Tas and Ras think I do.

Experiences: the words it speaks
As early as Plato and Phytagoras, music has in its exploration some mathematical flavors (notice the term: scale, interval, etc). This tradition survives to this day, and even takes stronger scientific foothold (see for yourself). But take the “artist” and the “genius mathematician” out of a songwriter, and what is left of him is a statistician. Their only assets are the number of possible combinations of melodies (Add to that, if they’re resourceful enough, the total number of possibility of how to present them --the instruments used, the color of the sounds, etc. Thus two songs with similar chords combination may sound totally different). For them music is about making new sound, ones which people may never hear before. Their question would only be: has anyone publish this sound? Boy, how the supply is getting thinner and thinner at every album release.

I don’t know this for sure, but I think that the total number of such combination is much much smaller compared to the total number of vocabulary of any language (Oxford English Dictionary has in it more than 300.000 word entries). I also doubt that this mathematical consideration is the motive behind putting lyrics into songs (many musician friends I know actually despise mathematics). I suspect, as many other would, that musicians use words to make their messages more explicit. It makes it clearer that the messages, hidden or out in the open, are also meant to be understood. I don’t know when this custom started, but I’m positive that it is older than the culture of pop music (most of which, probably more than 99 percent of them, use lyrics).

This is the foundation of which Ta and Ras thought I give a song a strict verdict. If a song lyrics is cheesy or girly, I will find it unforgiveably guilty for the crime against humanity (of crossing beyond the male chauvinists’ line, to be exact). I don’t not deny the male chauvinist in me, but saying this to be the reason I like or dislike a song is an oversimplification.

Given that we have more words in our dictionaries than we do notes in musical scales, the room of possibilities to customize our experiences into words should be as spacious as the universe itself. Thus, the list of song themes should go on forever. Even the most popular one --love-- may provide endless list of possible verbal combinations. So when a song writer choses words like “baby, I love you so”, or “I’ll be there for you”, or “you’re the air that I breathe” (and the list goes on), unless they are presented in such new and genial sound structure, or fit perfectly to my personal experience(s), their songs will not make it to my personal top 100 list, let alone my top 10 (not that they need my vote nor this will sadden them). Chosing such cliché-ish verbal approach, to me, is like making a Power Point presentation with a limited Microsoft templates. It hinders, if not diminishes, that which suppose to be meaningful messages.

Just because love is so common, it doesn’t mean that its expression automatically is. Actually, to say that love is a common experience is almost like saying that there is nothing special about whom we fall in love with. Most of us would find that deeply offensive. Diane Ackerman, an American poet, said that poetry has a way of lifting a feeling or idea out of its routine so that it could be appreciated with fresh eyes. The same goes with lyrics, I suppose, and any songwriter who accomplishes that deserves a proportional appreciation. Such accomplishment is not a few. Here are some (feel free to add).

One of the Brand New Heavies, to describe how one feels so small before one’s object of affection, wrote “you are the universe” [1] (Ha! Universe. Didn’t I mention that word before?), while Frankie Valli chose “I love you, and if it’s quite alright, I need you” [2].

Both Sting and Bono love their fathers full-blown, though neither quite got along with them and barely spoke. While Sting said “For all my days remaining/ I love you with my fashion” [3], Bono said “I know that we don’t talk/(but) can you hear me when I sing/ you’re the reason I sing/ you’re the reason the opera is in me” [4].

My favorite version of saying “I can’t get enough your love” is that of Dave Matthews Band’s: “I’m gonna take more of you letter by letter” [5]. That is the first time I found a writer uses full name to personifies the completeness of a person. It is as if he reinvented the word “letter”. I read in one of their unauthorized biographies that Dave, feeling that he was not much of a writer, spent hours and hours every day practising writing lyrics. I personally think without doubt that his efforts paid off.

Sometimes it is love itself, instead of the person, that we find endlessly beautiful. One of songwriters who expressed this articulately is Imogen Heap. She said: “oh (I need to) empty my heart/I've got to make room for this feeling/(because it is) so much bigger than me” [6].

Even the speechless effect love induced isn’t completely verbally paralyzing after all. One of the Jackson 5 (I don’t know which), made his lost for words his advantage when he wrote “la la means I love you” [7] (though I find the rest of the lyrics rather icky). Natasha Beddingfield, after a great length describing her efforts to poetize her affection, in the end apologetically said “(I can only write) I love you/is that okay?” [8].

Maybe it's just the reader in me, but with such a restless possibilities of describing how we experience life, or particularly, how we love, how could I not give lyrics a big credit?

***

This is not to say that Ta and Ras choose wrong songs to adore. Nor it is to say that I will stop making bad comments about musics Ta and Ras find pleasureable. Intimidating them by disagreeing with everything they say has been really fun so far (particularly of Ras, I did so with the Je’s implicit blessing). It would take a person with a big heart to put a stop to such a guilty pleasure. Unfortunately for them, I’m nowhere near that. Fortunately, they know this, and some preparations have been made, some coping techniques have been chosen (Somehow, this might not be an exaggeration).

....
[1] “You Are the Universe”
[2] “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You”
[3] “Why Should I Cry For You”
[4] “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own”
[5] “Too Much”
[6] “Can’t Take It In”
[7] “La La Means I Love You”
[8] “These Words”

Finding Heart and Soul, Part 2

2006-07-06T09:34:00.001+07:00

. (picture taken from Yahoo! Movies)

It was in Superman 3 when I saw The Man of Steel flies on a big screen. I have seen him flies before, not long before that, on my Superman 1 and 2 video tapes, but there was a sense of majesty seeing the action on the big screen. I remember I loved the movie very much. But then again, I was 6 at the time (much later on I realized that Hollywood fooled me, as media said that the third, and fourth, Superman installment were Hollywood flops).

I remember there was an adaptation comic, too, sold separately in the ticket box. After waiting quite long in the ticket line, my dad bought me one. I remember the thickness (about half centimeter), the art cover (matched the movie poster), and even the price (Rp.1000 --my, my). By the time the studio called us in, I have read and enjoyed it repeatedly. I still keep the comic --safely stored in my closet compartment. I lost the key, though. Seeing Superman Returns made me feel like to break-open that compartment and take the old comic out for another readout.

How Superman Returns
There was, I bet, a slight of fear in many people when Warner Bros. first announced in 2001 that they are working on a new Superman movie project. Technically, it would be extremely difficult to capture a tall stud wearing a blue tight, exhibitionist red underwear, uncommon red cape (and boots, at that), not to mention a big ‘S’ on his chest, without making viewers feeling icky. In 1978, director Richard Donner escaped that box-office death trap. Though with limited technology and poor storyline, people believed that a man can fly because that’s how convincing John Williams’ compositions sounded and, most of all, Christopher Reeve’s posture looked. That time, Warner Bros made it only by the skin of its teeth, and so at the time the remake was announced, I fear that they were pushing their luck.

News, all not good enough to hear, were heard. Names came up, but the news themselves are vaguely confirmed. Tim Burton was one director rumored to handle the project. He is rumored to take on the Death of Superman plot and will have Nicholas Cage plays Superman. Kevin Smith, director, screenplay and comic writer, was also rumored to have signed in (and in the end, out) a production contract after having drafted Superman Lives scenario. If one who loves Superman hears these rumors and has no emotions evoked, positive or negative, then this project is worth doubting.

Another rumor came out, that Bryan Singer left the third installment of X-Men and approached (or was approached by, it’s unclear) Warner Bros. to freshen up Red Sun (code name for the project), by which he meant crossing out the so-far super candidate list (this includes weird picks like Ashton Kutcher, Josh Harnett, etc) and start looking for fresh individual for the main character. This rumor turned out to be true. Considering how good Singer handled X-Men and X-Men United, building a story only after having designed strong characters’ personalities, I thought that this new Superman may have a good future in it.

Eight months ago, the teaser trailer was released. There “he” was, stand-floating above earth, eyes closed. The “Krypton” soundtrack slowly swelled, in crescendo. A voice, Jor-El’s, entered:

“..They can be great people Kal-El, they wish to be.
They only lack the light to show the way.
For this reason above all, their capacity for good,
I sent them you, my only son.”

His eyes opened, and sped downward to the distant earth ground. One minute sample. I bought it. Singer will, I have faith, make him fly again.

This time around, Hollywood has the money, the technology, thus they can rebuild him. This Superman really flies. He air-swooshes, soars, parts clouds, takes off smoothly, lands gently, floats mid-air, and my favorite, lands vertically with a strong bump. Despite a major belief that no man can replace Christopher Reeve, Brandon Routh is suited up rather convincingly. His super costume is dark-toned, instead of Reeve’s light-toned, to put some age on him. The ‘S’ is smaller to make his chess looks as wide as Reeve’s. Simply put, he looks super enough to me.

Add, to Returns super list, Singer’s loyalty. Returns opens and closes with such familiarity: John Robson from Digital Neural Axis designed similar (and CG-enhanced) main title sequence to the original version; Ottman’s used almost all John Williams’s original scores and composed some new tracks based on them; the classic Marlon Brando’s Jor-El images and voices are gracefully slid in. Some characters’ personalities are well preserved, like Kent’s clunkyness, Superman’s politeness, including Lane’s self-centeredness, and the rest are sharpened, as in Perry White’s (more of a sharp eye than a rapid mouth) and Lex Luthor’s (more patience in Spacey than Hackman). Returns closes with Superman flies orbiting far above in outer space toward the sun behind the other side of the planet. All these, done as if Singer inherited them from Donner. I guess when Singer said in a press conference that Superman Returns would pick where Superman 2 left off, he didn’t mean just the story.

It is a great decision that this Superman doesn’t have any super villain. In Superman’s cinematic history these super villains have always ruined the movie. Superman may be the biggest comic figure, but his persona that the majority people fall in love with is not the one of the comics’, but the movies’ instead (especially the first two). His figure is moderately built instead of looking like a body-builder, displays more of polite nature and were exposed to more drama with Lois. That persona once had a name --Christopher Reeve.

Besides, Superman has just made his comeback, and it would be too far-fetched to have even only one of his super nemesis to closely follow suit. Personally, should there be other Superman pictures, I prefer these super thugs don’t make any appearance at all. I think Donner’s greatest heritage is that, unlike the comic versions, he placed his Superman in a universe closely resembling our real world --it’s the best make-believe approach, in my opinion. Superman’s foes, therefore come only from those guiding-light-lacking earthling gone really really bad --this is Luthor’s entrance. That means that the only one capable of defeating Superman is, one way or another, himself. And he was indeed beaten by Kryptonite (thanks to, of course, Luthor).

All and all, the reason this Superman really passed the Hollywood test by flying color is its strongest secret weapon --a good intact plot: that Superman came back after five years disappearance looking for what was left of his home planet (that’s only intermezzo), that Lane has moved on (with a “husband” and child too), and that Luthor was released from prison, snatched himself some fortune, learned about Superman history, and planned his sweet revenge.

Further, a good plot is perfected by good dialogues, and good dialogues are indeed what Returns has. Screenplay writer Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris wrote dialogues that are neither too less or much (Dougherty and Harris made cameo in the movie. They’re the two museum visitors hushed away by Luthor’s thugs). No conversation between Lois and Superman are overdone thus Returns were eloquently saved from lame scenes. Almost all communications between Luthor and his thugs are nonverbal, mostly meaningful eye contacts and smiles (and frowns). “Just-enough” dialogues are just perfect --Team Singer’s triumph.

Many people, including me, have faith that a dedication note to “you-know-who” would make it to the scene --it’s only fair that it would. These many people were right. On the credit title, a note appears saying:

“This picture is dedicated with love and respect
to Christopher Reeve and Dana Reeve.”

With love and respect. I love the choice of words, not for its poetry but for its precision. When you get some drama --and natural, at that-- out of a superhero movie (my favorite, Luthor’s Prometheus speeches) you know that it’s written by heart.

A Superman Needed
Nearing the closing of the movie, there was a scene where Lois Lane was to start writing an article entitled Why the World Needs Superman (Ironically, Lois was to receive a Pulitzer for her previous article entitled Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman). Blocked, she went out for some air and the paper remained blank. It was as if the scene was intended as an open question for the audiences.

Everyone who loves Superman has their own answers. As for mine, it’s for old time sake. I grew up adoring Superman. Though later on I moved on admiring other superheroes, and even thinking of him as obsolete, making acquaintance with Superman is still where it all began. And that’s where Returns brought me --where it all began. For 154 minutes, I was 6 again.
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PS: There were two scenes in Returns where Heart and Soul, a playful song of which less than a month ago I had a nice nostalgia, was played. It is for this coincidental reason that this post is entitled, however wrongful it may be.

Finding Heart and Soul

2006-05-10T02:41:00.001+07:00

.(picture taken from www.art.com)

A melodic, jumpy, upbeat song is always good for --among other things-- whistling. For a person whom God cooked as an introvert (thus I mostly walk alone) and impatient (thus I mostly walk fast), nothing beats whistling while walking fast (if I walk slowly, then I must be reading). For the past few days I’ve been whistling the same mysterious song which I occasionally pick for the past sixteen years. I know nothing about this song, except the sound of its first bar. That limitation changed today.

In 1990, when I was fourteen, I saw one of Tom Hanks early movies, Big. It tells a story of a boy, Josh Baskin, who couldn’t stand another minute being a 10-year-old. One day in a town carnival, he saw a mystical machine which would make one’s wish comes true for the cost of only a nickel. Just for fun, Josh put a coin in, and wished to be a grown-up. And a grown-up he became on the next morning (Hanks played the grown-up Josh). In the story, Josh eventually found what a lucky thing it is to be a kid, and wished things would go back to normal. Like every happy ending story, Josh re-kid-ed himself.

There was a scene --my favorite one-- when Josh came into a toy store to browse around (he was, after all, still a 10-year-old at heart). He found a floor piano and played a song. He stepped onto the floors from key to key. Its floors shone lights and sounds came out. The store owner, seeing the adult Josh having a bit of childlike fun, joined him on a duet. The song they played is my mysterious whistle-song.

I fell in love with the song instantly, though it was played unfinished --just one bar. I played that part of the videotape (dear God) repeatedly just to listen to the song. Until finally it got to the point where the tape was damaged of overuse. Before the tape was broken, I was lucky --and wise-- enough to trick a friend of mine, a piano literate, to see it and make the musical notations for me. I knew it would come handy one day, that after my tape was nothing but a history, I used to make him play as repetitious as my tape was (He didn’t mind).

Except the rumor that the song was called Heart and Soul, I know nothing else. I don’t know both who wrote nor sang it. I don’t know if it has any lyrics (but if it does, I know I’ll love it). I only know that one bar. There is a scientific notion --facial feedback hypothesis-- that said: if you are in negative mood, move you face muscles to make a smile and keep it for several minutes, and you’ll feel better. One of my personal bad-mood counter strategy was a bit different: when I’m in a negative mood, whistle Heart and Soul, and I’ll feel better. Though my whistling face muscles don’t nearly resemble my smiling face muscles (you can indeed tell the difference between people smiling and whistling), they yield the same result nonetheless. Thus I call it my “one magic bar.”

When I said it’s a mysterious song, I meant it. No one seems to know the song. I never heard it played on any radio stations. I found a ‘Heart and Soul’ once, but it sounded so lame and sissy in a Celine Dion way (and, boy, do I hate Celine Dion). There was a Robert Downey, Jr. movie with the same title, but my mystery-song wasn’t there (Though, I think it’s a fabulous movie and had no regret watching it. I even found a similarly good song in it --called Walk Like a Man, Talk Like a Man. And yes, sometimes I whistle that one, too). In 1997, Heart and Soul came up in Now And Again [1], a TV series, also in featuring one of the character playing it on a piano without lyrics, and also just that one bar. I flipped out, freaked out, screamed out --all three in an extremely good way. But it was a short flip-freak-and-scream for it was television thus I couldn’t repeat it. What pained me, the title didn’t come on the closing credits --no information on Heart and Soul. Come to think of it, I don’t even know whether Heart and Soul is the correct title. In fact, I can’t even remember how I know that title in the first place. However, so long as that tune brightens my day, clear or gloomy, it stays to be my “one magic bar.”

About nine hours before this sentence is written, I posted a question to Yahoo! Answers [2]

The title was Heart and Soul, indeed. One answer provided me with lyrics (it has lyrics, indeed). One funny fact is that the lyrics was written by someone by the name of Frank Loesser. That’s funny, because I thought the lyric was a Wienner. Just read it: it’ll undoubtedly wien your heart. My favorite answer is one that copied-pasted me a web page which, again to my surprise, played a midi file of my mystery-song! about that song. At first I thought it was a long shot, but after having searching for sixteen years in vain, I figured nothing would disappoint me anymore so it wouldn’t hurt to try. Surprise. Exactly seven seconds after I hit the submit button, I got 4 answers.

(it's http://www.niehs.nih.gov/kids/lyrics/heartsoul.htm, by the way)

And so there I was, in my office, listening to the tune looping endlessly for old time sake, hour after hour, only this time without guilt --knowing no tape nor any of my friend’s fingers would get broken. Had I forget that the glasses in my office was see-though, I would have had jiggy-ed my ass all over the room (And me jiggy-ing happens as rarely as Halley Comet passes over Earth).

About three hours after my revelation, I got in touch with a friend of mine. I texted her, asking how many songs entitled Heart and Soul she has in her mp3 folders. Again, I thought it was a long shot, but after my previous revelation and three hours of listening to that one bar continuously, I thought why not? She didn’t have any (no surprise there), but she said she could try a peer-to-peer search. I gave her the midi link so she’d know which Heart and Soul I meant (It turned out that she knew the song, not the title, though. It was her piano lesson song). I think liking the song is contagious for she looked for it enthusiastically. Less than an hour, she, in rejoice, texted me back to tell me she had that song successfully downloaded --and played it repeatedly, too (I think it’s the only way it should be played). This Thursday, it’ll finally be, after sixteen years of searching, in any playing device I have.

It sounds weird that a machine helped me find Heart and Soul.

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PS: Thank you for the answers (isabow27, bloggerdude2005, WickedWordCraft, ljtimoney, lover24, risky_1986, tfram36). Thank you for downloading (Mekhta)

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[1] Now And Again was also a TV Series I was (and still am) crazy about (That seem to happen often: both favoritizing films and being crazy). The story began with the main character, Michael Wiseman, regular 30ish man, died in an accident. Afterward, a secret government agency, stole his body, took out his surviving brain, put it inside a brainless manufactured human body with super strength. Though it sounded like a cheap action in a Six-Million-Dollar-Man kind of way, it was actually a well-crafted drama in a Gilmore-Girls kind of way. The story revolves around a series of coincidental encounters between him and his wife and daughter (both wife and daughter didn’t know he’s alive).

[2] Yahoo! Answer is another version of online community. In it, after having an ID account, you can post and answer as many questions as you like. Afterward you can vote for and rate the best answers. Questions posted ranging from How exactly cloning works? to What do you suggest is the best wedding proposal surprise for my girlfriend?)

People On People

2006-05-08T19:38:00.001+07:00

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This year’s TIME 100 --special edition of world’s one hundred most influential people-- is now available. As usual, readers are indulged with quick abstracts on various intriguing topics: tech talks --Wikipedia’s Jimmy Wales, Flickr.com’s Caterina Fake and Steve Butterfield, MySpace.com’s Chris DeWolf and Tom Anderson-- and science talks --Richard Davidson (He joined western neuropsychology and eastern meditative cognitive science in a holy scientific matrimony, and work together with Dalai Lama, too), Bill James (He, a statistician, turned baseball statistics into an industry), Nancy Cox (She battles to crack the code of ever mutating influenza virus)-- and politic talks, sport talks, culture talks (I’m running out of breath here).

Some are peer-to-peer pieces. NBA Legend Sir Charles Barkey expressed how Steve Nash, a fellow Phoenix Suns-shiner who became a basketball superhero not by making the most scores but by making players around him score better through his super 11.5 average assists, humbled him. China’s doll and pride, Ziyi Zhang, honors Ang Lee for his multitasking struggle --both reintroducing the Orients and rediscovering the Wild West through the world of cinema, and at the same while, standing true to his Eastern roots. My new hero, Malcolm Gladwell --author of plenty ideas on human thoughts-- wrote how listening genuinely to people made Steven Levitt, author of Freakonomics, a man every scientist dream of: an out-of-the-box thinker. Tom Cruise had much to say about J.J. Abrams (with whom he just shared mutual honor of collaborating): an actor, writer, director, closet cartoonist, composer, magician, puppeteer, puzzlemaker, humorist, modelmaker, and husband (coincidentally, both Abram’s and Cruise’s wifes’ names are Katie) --though I think this piece is more like a Mission: Impossible 3’s self-promotion than an appraisal.

Some instant karma took place in this edition --one of them is even a multi instant karma. Al Gore, whom Karen Tumulty described as a man who changed his heart from political fights to protecting the environment, consistently saluted Jim Hansen, a NASA scientist who stands his ground stronger year after year making his point to White House that global warming is no myth and here (Gore called him The Climate Crusader). Condoleeza Rice, having his article written by Leslie Gelb --President of the Council on Foreign Relation in New York City--, wrote about Oprah Winfrey’s --to whom she proudly call a friend-- human touch (whether by founding Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy for Girls, or building homes for 65 families of Katrina’s victims, or even just by inviting experts to her talk show to advise audiences for better lives). Not done yet. Madam Winfrey, the preacher of meaning of life herself, wrote a heart-warming piece of Elie Wiesel, a 62-year-old Holocaust survivor (then, he was 15) whose spirit and wisdom made him her hero.

Some karma actually took some time to play its hand. How many times does a person get the chance to know and meet and call someone a hero? A hero was what once Bono wrote on Aung San Suu Kyi, Bumeses’ human rights figther. But, how many times does that same person get the chance to be called hero, too? This year, it is only fair that Jesse Helms (former Senator from North Carolina), called the man who pushes leaders of the modern world to erase the strangling debts of extremely poor countries (and is succeeding) just what he obviously is all this time: a hero.

Some articles are big surprises and puzzling. Like, Henry Kissinger the former US Secretary of State talked of Franz Beckenbaur the football victor (yes, Mr. Kissinger used the word ‘football’). And, Edward Norton the Fight Club actor (whose directing debut, Keeping The Faith, I love too much) talked of Ma Jun, China’s environmental hero who is protecting China’s water from poisoning by industrial progress --that’s a super burden, and ironic, too, considering China is enjoying its quick 10% GDP increase. It turned out that Norton’s dad founded US Nature Conservancy and had the honor of working together with Ma Jun. It must have been an amazing father-and-son talk.

TIME may named it TIME 100, but I call it People party. Besides the things written down, the most surprising fact for me is: it has been exactly one year since the last edition hit my head also this hard.

Intimate Encounter Of The Third Kind (Finale)

2006-02-11T23:26:00.000+07:00

In the spirit of mid-February (there is no way I will use the V-word), I’ve prepared three postings I thought relevant to the occasion. This second piece is an excerpt from one of Seinfeld’s episode. Picturing its main character, Jerry, as a stand up comedian, Seinfeld is regularly slipped with three of his live comic acts: one to open, one to short-break, and one to close the show. This one from episode 10 of season 3, The Alternate Side, suits the occasion perfectly.

The Best Part Of A Relationship
I think the best part of a relationship is when you're sick. And the best part of being sick is when you’re in a relationship. You know all those vows –for richer or poorer, for better or worst, (and on)? All I mean is the sickness. That’s to me is the most important one. Do you take this man in sickness? That’s the only time I need somebody there. The rest of the time, go out, have a ball, do whatever you want. But if I have the sniffles…. You better be there.

PS: to those who celebrate, have a good one.

Intimate Encounter Of The Second Kind

2006-02-11T23:20:00.000+07:00

In the spirit of mid-February (there is no way I will use the V-word), I’ve prepared three postings I thought relevant to the occasion. This second piece is from a discourse I had with a friend of mine somewhen on last November –written right on the night of the discussion.

The Brave Analysis (Or Not)
Around last November, a friend of mine and I are engaged in an interesting conversation. I forgot what we were talking about, but somehow he got to love-relationship subject. He supports the belief that human intimate relationship is no more than a learning behavior –a complex one, but still, a learning behavior. He pointed out that it is possible for a human male, in an extremely controlled condition, to fall in love with a robot whose behavioral vocabulary resembles a genuine human female (please note that in this, I suppose, girlish topic, my diction projects my aggressive effort to unnecessarily maintain my male chauvinism).

I disagreed with him of course, arguing that he underestimated human intelligence on so many levels. I believe falling in love is an event in which two essential things happen between two human species. One: an individual found him/herself in a situation where he/she admires the other person’s thoughts after a critical period of interactions. It isn’t that our own thoughts aren’t worth admiring in the first place. But it is probably that our brain works so hard on so many task simultaneously that we miss to marvel our own greatness. It is easier to see the awe happens in someone else’s.

Two: when two people enjoy each other’s companion, that means they think compatibly. Throughout our lifetime, our living tissues –especially our brains– evolve. So do our thoughts. As our elderly put it, we mature. The reason relationship last, I presumed, is because couples co-mature also compatibly. They don’t need to mature the same way, just compatibly –relatively the same speed and predictable direction to name a few.

I don’t see how a robot, however advance the model is, would qualify on both accounts.

But that only answers how we fall in love. The most adventurous question in the history of time has always been why.

It is a very far extent to how I adore Darwin’s theories. I love the idea that there is always a reason why we are what we are –that there is a reason for our existence and everything that we do. It is amusing how they all have the same end-game: survival. Though the theory sound far-fetched and may only serve self-fulfilling-prophecies principle, they still keep our hopes up, thus we survive anyway.

I like to think that our affectionate behavior patterns have something to do with death. We human fear things we don’t understand. And the thing we don’t understand the most is death. Even to this day, with so much of our technological advances, we still have no clues to what happens after death –another life or just a full stop.

There was a good movie in 1991, Defending Your Life. In the story, Daniel Miller (played by comedian Albert Brooks) found himself in a cosmic terminal after his death. Life turned out to be a series of qualification tests. And the terminal –called Judgment City– is where we wait for our grades announced. If you score high (read: mature) you get to live the next more difficult life but if you score low you go back down. Apparently, there’s a lot more after-life than we ever think of. Either way, we stay living. That’s good, as long as we forget that it’s fiction.

The real deal is, we’re in constant doubt that heaven-hell scenario is valid (some lucky people constantly believe it’s valid, some unlucky ones constantly believe it’s false). And one thing is certain should the worst-case scenario (read: nothing after death) reveals to be true: we will be forgotten in time (short time, probably). That means we die twice. And so we need to come up with some counter-strategies to live on, or pseudo-live on at the least.

There are always small groups of people who conduct obsessive studies looking for potential ways to live longer. Ancient Egyptians came up with the idea of embalming their dead pharaohs (some not yet dead when embalmed). This century, scientists do it by uncovering the mysteries of cloning and stem cells implant.

But so long as death is inevitable, we need plan B (maybe even plan Bs). Hence we work diligently and leave our inspiring creations behind to make sure people remember us. We paint, make sculptures, build towers, write poems, invent technologies, even discover islands. If we’re lucky our stories will survive for years through school textbooks, encyclopedias, or even movies. Our statues will stand tall (and bigger than real size) in city parks. Streets, schools, universities, and hospitals will be named after us.

But that strategy doesn’t come without any loophole. We may fail or people may just fail to notice us, or worst, both. So we make sure we have insurance: we scout for a lifetime partner. The plan is to spoil her/him with invaluable niceties for longitudinal time frame. These are acts of investing positive memorable experiences about us unto her/him. Thus, when we (knock on wood) die one person will surely remember us even when our fellow earthlings or countrymen or citizens or officemen or schoolmates or, for heaven’s sake, friends won’t. By lingering through her/him, we live on (sort of) at least a little bit longer. But if this is human nature, that means our “scoutee” is playing the same trick. The good news is, there’s a good chance our plans work two-way. He/she becomes important to us, and vice versa. I think that’s what we call falling in love.

More good news about this strategy is, it comes with an added bonus. If things go well, we may get married and make children, which in biological terms is an event in which two individuals cooperatively write a new DNA sequences for a new living being. Our children would bear countless physical resemblances –eyes, nose, lips, skin, etc. Scientists believe that we parent have even handed down our limitless behavioral genetic scripts for their future use –they would be able to do things we typically would, and like things we typically do. And if that’s not enough, we still have time to teach them life (program them, satirically speaking). And so we live on (again, sort of).

I’m actually not sure which is our primary goal –the lingering or the regeneration part. But so long as we get both, why concern?

For me personally, I don’t know whether I’m too smart or stupid to fear death. So far, there was only one death I cried over. I’m nowhere suicidal, but when in comes to dying I have always wished that my death will be in discrete.

So, until I come up with better explanations or the courage to tell the truth-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth, please graciously spare me the question of why I’m currently without relationship. I swear, if even just one more soul dares to pop the question, the first thing he/she finds in his/her email inbox the next morning will be the complete and uncut version of this contemplation. So long this version is that he/she will regret ever asking.

Intimate Encounter Of The First Kind

2006-02-11T23:12:00.000+07:00

In the spirit of mid-February (there is no way I will use the V-word), I’ve prepared three postings I thought relevant to the occasion. This first piece, is an excerpt from A.J. Jacobz’s book, The Know-It-All. Jacobz, an editor for Esquire, suspected that he had lost his intellectual capacity he once had when he was in elementary school. To restore it, he determined to read The Encyclopaedia of Brittanica, all 32 volumes of it. The Know-It-All is his version of journal –chronologically ordered not by dates, but by encyclopedic entry order– where he wrote down any thoughts and events crossed his mind when reading each entry. This one about courtship is undeniably attractive.

C, Courtship
I can’t believe what a bunch of sleazeballs these animals are. That’s what strikes me whenever I read about courtship rituals in the animal kingdom. These critters –at least the male ones– are some slime, deceitful operators. Consider the shameless debauchee known as the swordtail characin fish (whom I first encountered in the animal behavior section). The male swordtail characin, you see, has long stringy bits that dangle from his gills –bits that are designed to look exactly like the daphnia worm, the characin’s favorite snack. When a hungry female characin sees this tantalizing daphnia, she naturally approaches, anticipating a nice meal. Instead, when she’s close enough, she gets an unpleasant surprise: the male shtups her. A literal bait and switch.

There are dozens of such stories. Here’s just one other, for variety. The female cichlid fish are called “mouth breeders,” which means they’re incubating eggs in their mouth. The females swallow up any stray eggs and keep them stored safely between the cheeks. The male cichlid fish knows about this, so he’s developed his fins to look exactly like an egg –same size, same mustard color. The poor lady cichlid spies one of these so called eggs, and paddles over to try to swallow it up. But as soon as she opens her mouth, bam, the male sprays her with sperms. Just like that.

I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised about the level of deceit in courtship behavior. Humans aren’t exactly 100 percent guileless when it comes to romance. If they were, Wonderbra would be out of business and match.com ads would read, “Short, pudgy guy with no discernible income and acne scars that resemble the constellation Ursa Minor seeks beautiful woman to share his rent-controlled apartment.” So I shouldn’t be all high and mighty.

In fact, Julie loves to tell me that I engaged in shameless deceit when wooing her. “For the first three months, it was Dr. Jekyll, Dr. Jekyll, Dr. Jekyll,” she says. “Then you had hooked me, and all of a sudden, here comes Mr. Hyde!” I had my own version on the tantalizing daphnia-shaped gills, says Julie. Namely, I pretended to like parties, dancing, dinners at fancy restaurants, even the occasional Broadway musical. Over one early dinner, we made ambitious plans about all the places we’d like to travel: Sweden, South Africa, Portugal. Now Julie knows my actual list of places I want to travel: kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. And as for Broadway musicals, I haven’t been within five hundred yards of an orchestra pit since she accepted my engagement ring.

I, on the other hand, don’t see it as deception. I tell her: “It wasn’t a conscious change from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. It’s just that I found the woman I love and I figured I didn’t need to go out to parties anymore.” That one always causes a half laugh, half scoff.

After I read about the characin, I padded out the living room to share it with her. “Hey Julie,” I say. “You know how you say I deceived you and tricked you into marrying me?”

“I sure do.”
“Well, look at this.”
She reads it. “Makes sense,” she says. “Makes a lot of sense.” She seems pleased.

I take back my Britannica and pad back into my office. I’m not sure why I just shared that with her. It certainly didn’t help my cause. In fact, now I’m pretty much screwed in all future arguments. I think I have to be a little more careful with the information I share.

Knowledge: Law And Order

2006-02-01T13:16:00.000+07:00

Last weekend I saw Constant Gardener, a movie about a British diplomat for Africa who found out that his wife’s murder was related to a deep scandal. His wife found that an international drug company, aside from charging Africa with sky-high price (10-20 times the regular US price), have also been testing their premature drugs on the disposable African.

I am not very much familiar with stories about Africa, poverty, or global health, but I have come across with some other sources that relate a little to the subject. Once there was an episode of West Wing, where Toby Ziegler, White House director of communication, mediated a meeting between the Prime Minister of Kenya and several CEOs of multinational drug companies about the possiblity of free distribution of drugs to the Kenyan[1]. There was Jeffrey Sach’s End Of Poverty I read a few months ago, in which is everything you need to know about how and why Western civilization prospers, African suffers, and Asian climbs higher. There was also TIME’s global health cover story around the second week of December last year. So in the middle of watching Constant, I got kind of jumpy and almost shouted “Hey, I know a little something about what they’re talking about!”

There was a little of good sting saying that. It’s one of those days when my non-discriminative reading habit paid off. I’m practically a sting addict, and proud of it. I don’t understand how anyone can ever get enough of such aha! experiences. I personally always think that the amount of knowledge I want to have is: one more, please. But there has always been some price to pay for both the knowledge and the sting.

The Order
Knowledge is a curious thing. It does not quite follow mathmetical equations. Our total knowledge is much much more than the sum of its part. Just because you're now on chapter two of Malcom Gladwell’s Blink doesn’t make you twice as smarter than those still on chapter one. I don’t know how the formula works exactly, but I think the value of each knowledge we get the later equals the previous ones multiplied by some higher and higher number. Otherwise, we won’t get that accumulatively excited about them.

But most of these knowledge, though available, are scattered in pieces. That makes the chance on getting stung is even slimmer. We’d be extremely lucky if just one thousandth of all the knowledge in the world are available in some organized fashion. Thank God for schools! They are places where every information are already taxonomized. They are the perfect sources of ready-to-take-out information –intellectual version of instant foods (at least compared to the ones in the open world). If we’re lucky enough to go to kindergarten and all the way through graduate school, we get approximately 24,180 hour worth of organized inputs. Supposing we have a 75 years of life expectancies, our schoolyears, the period of well-organized-and-defragmented-information-acquisition, is still worth only 3.7 percent of our lifespan. Only 3.7 percent worth of potentially (and only potentially) inspirational period. That makes me wonder whether we are that luckier compare to those whose formal educational opportunities have been deprived.

That leaves us with the remaing of 96.3 percent lifespan of knowledge browsing. That is, if we browse. Even if we do, gathering is only half the process, much like food gathering is only halfway before actualing eating them (mostly there’s cooking involved). Knowing all the series of knowledge does not make us understand them. Aha experiences only emerge after a concious act of regrouping previously collected information. With all those knowledge that we gather in random sequence, I can only imagine how much time our brain should stay in alert mode. If I want more of those Constant-excitement I should keep my sensory machines standby 24/7.

Thus, bless the soul of everyone who dedicates their time to put as much knowledge as they can in a more friendly and useable order. And extra-bless those souls who are brave enough to offer their lives compiling pieces of stories into encyclopedias. Back in college, my philosophy professor taught me me that the attempt of classifiying knowledge has started at least since the era of ancient Greek by Aristotle. And It turned out that those encyclopedial professions has been a vocational choice since at least the 13th century in France. I guess I have to to work harder on my prayer if I genuinely want them all blessed.

The Law
There are several particular people whom I pay the most respects in the knowledge sharing business. There’s the Google people –Larry Page and Sergey Brin. One of their new mission is to index all the books that are no longer published. If this duo succeed, just type Plato’s Republic on Google homepage and you will get the complete content of the book –for free. Page and Brin are currently court-battling several publishing companies simultaneously for copyright issue. But I’m sure the whole open source community are on their side.

Moreover, I presume Lawrence Lessig, professor of Stanford Law School, a law expert and founder of Center of Internet and Society has their backs, too. In 2004 Lessig wrote a book entitled Free Culture: How Big Media Use Technology And The Law To Lock Down Culture And Control Creativity. He argued that intellectual property rights protect publishers a lot more that it do the creators themselves (authors, composers, etc). Publishers’ legal rights impose long-term disadvantages for both their clients and the consumers. According to these publishers, Page and Brin have no business distributing any of "their" books. But Page and Brin are doing authors a great favor. Any author will choose getting their books distributed for free over not getting distributed at all. Knowledge always belong to public. Putting inspirations into confinement will only slow down other people’s creativity and finally kill culture. It is why Lessig and Google are on the same page. I don’t really understand the whole court room situation, but rumour has it that Page and Brin are on their way to a sunny future.

If there is one more person whom I think will share the same chapter in history books with Lessig, Page, and Brin, that will be James Wales (which brings us back to encyclopedia topic). In March 2000, Wales started an online encyclopedia called Wikipedia. His ingenious idea is to make an unstoppably limitless collective intelligence possible. His version of online encyclopedia is one with which people can have access to put in, edit, and discuss entries collaboratively. Today, it is the encyclopedia with the most entries –approximately 880,000 entries in English language alone (compare to Brittanica’s 120,000)– and gets 2 billion page visits each day. Wikipedia is now facing a credibility issue due to an inaccurate political entry found last month, but media are optimist that this is a loophole Wikipedia can patch without much sweats. It is as if for the first time in history, David’s chances on beating Goliath are looking convingly good.

Wikipedia is Wales’ instrument to his final dream –a free, limitless, organized knowledge for people in poor countries. For that, he needs to find strategies to get those people the necessary computer units and internet connection, also for free. And supports come from all over the world (for further information, visit www.wikipedia.org because you can support them, too).

The idea of knowledge for everyone may be a perfect case of utopia. But it’s nice to know that there are great people trying to make sure that the Constant sting I mentioned goes epidemic. A good kind of epidemic, for once in history.

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[1] Toby’s assignment was to convince the drug companies to benefit the giant-companies-with-giant-hearts reputation by providing Kenya with required amount of medicine not for the fifty percent discount price, nor the regular US price, but for free (and yes, the meeting went earned successfully)

Doctor To The Highest Degree

2005-11-10T13:11:00.000+07:00

Whenever my friends and I started to talk about doctors, I launched this particular joke: The best doctor in the world is Dr. Anwar Jusuf. I would tricked them into at least two-minute argument until I finally tell them that he’s my Dad. The joke always sticks deep in their heads that afterward they refer to my Dad as ‘doctor anwar’.

To Fear or Not To Fear (To Admire, Then)
My Dad is many things, but all my life, on my top ten what-do-I-think-of-him list, competition between ‘whom I admire the most’ and ‘whom I fear the most’ is as tight and hot as the competition between LA Lakers and Boston Celtics in the 80’s.

When I was at home watching TV, he would be on stand-by mode in case I ask questions. And I asked a lot of questions. He answered ‘a lot of questions’ too. When on the road, I would look out the window and he would explain me things that crossed our visual path. Before I fell asleep, he would read or told all kinds of stories –of which I asked thousands of questions. Anytime, he always had explanations and answers. His answer always made sense. He was genius. He was a my very own 24/7 source book.

He was the scariest teacher I’ve ever had. At nights after doing my homework, he used to wait on me reading books and then quizzed me. I failed so many questions that he raised his scary voice on me so many times. The first time it happened, tears were loosed, which made him even madder. I couldn’t even keep my eyes focus, and answering him was far from my ambition. School stress was nothing compared to my night-class stress. Hence, I answered questions easily and finished assignments without significant difficulties. And then the night classes stopped. My Dad was genius.

The Trust, The Whole Trust, and Nothing But The Trust
House rules were seldom hard for me to accept because Dad always had his explanations. And, more importantly, they are shared with me. Implicitly he let me know that no good deed would go unpunished. When I was in junior high, my Dad had this generous policy –no more curfews for me. I could be home as late as I wanted should I provide my Mom and Dad with sufficient information. Each year passed meant more features added to my freedom package. When I was teen-aging my Dad again solemnly put their trust in me. They gave me a raid-free room, in other words: my very own teenage kingdom. I know that my parents found the not-for-teenagers magazines my friends stored in my bookshelves, but not even once they confronted my (the minding-their-own-businesses thing was actually yielded gigantic guilt and the guilt was killing me like crazy).

When I was in high school, it became explicit that my parents never once interfere with choices that I made and will make. When I told my Dad about my sudden shift of interest, medical to design, he accepted calmly. I know my Mom went crazy because I have told them both since forever that I wanted to be like my Dad, a doctor. That night, my Mom invited me to an adult talk to tell me her side of the story and to find out mine. My Mom didn’t want me to become an artist (neither do I), and I convinced her that design methods were scientific. At the end, I found out the talk was my Dad’s idea. That made sense.

When I was in college I burdened my parents with a brand new stuff: inter-religion relationship. I knew I pushed their super sensitive buttons and that their thermometer would hit through its ceiling. To make the truth telling part harder, I was to stand my ground, opposing their being against inter-religion issue. I knew my Dad and I knew My Mom. I chose my battle ground and made my battle rules. I told them separately to give them time to talk things over, so that when it was time to talk to me, they would have one voice. I was prepared for a big battle, instead what he said was: We had our talks (he and Mom). We looked for your misdecisions and found none. We realize you make your decisions with careful thoughts. We decided that this time we, again, put our trust in you.

I was waiting for a war and my Dad offered me peace. I lost my balance, not understanding why he said what he said. I forgot the most obvious nature of my Dad’s decision: they are none I could understand at present times. And that night I realize that trust is a scary thing.

To Mind Our Business
We were not much of a dining-together kind of family and the only male-bonding moments for my Dad and me was when I chauffer him around. They are the perfect moments to measure my Dad’s respect for this son of his. He would take me as an adult and talked as men do (good men, that is). We would have different positions, contradictive sometimes. Different and contradictive always make our conversation alive. And these are joyous moments.

It was on one these bonding occasions that I found out my Dad’s true passion: human mind. The closest clue science has on human mind was brain so we too talk about that a lot. My Dad thinks highly of human brains. A scientist, he thinks of it spiritually (and he loves being a scientist). He would talk about it for hours and hours with fire in his eyes. He was so fluent about the topic that his sentences were very long, grammatically correct, and breath-skipping too.

He hit my home-run button as I too love the topic. We would accidentally came across the same researches and marvel them together. For me and my Dad, ‘human brain’ (as a topic) is our ‘corpus calosum’ –the brain part that keep the right hemisphere (that would be me since I’m the one on the driver’s seat) intact to the left hemisphere (that would be my Dad since he’s the one on the navigator seat, although his navigating vocabulary is limited to only ‘watch out!’). And his being a physician and my being a psych major keep the scale beautifully balanced. Averagely, we have one hour duration and we use it wisely and mind-ly.
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Today is November 10.
It is “The Day of Heroes”.
It is my Dad’s birthday.
That makes a lot of senses.

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PS: On June 15, my Mom’s birthday, I decided not to post my appreciation here because it was too Oedipal for public consumption (and one people reading it is public enough for me).

I Am All Ears

2005-11-01T00:40:00.000+07:00

One night eight years ago, a friend abducted me to see Seven Years In Tibet, a true story of friendship of Heinrich Harrer and Dalail Lama. There was a scene when Kun Dun (young Dalail Lama) asked Harrer what he loved about climbing mountains. That dialogue stayed with that whole night. Several nights ago, I was listening to my iPod, and reminded of Harrer’s answer.

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Bodily cycle is a remarkable thing. Its regulation seems to have purposes. My ears regulate a three-phase cycle. Each phase represents what auditory stimuli I generally long to exploit. I don’t know if this cycle resembles only me or most people, but personally, it helps to know, that every time my ears are fatigue, that means I am at the end of one cycle and ready to move on to the next.

I don’t know which is the first phase, but for a starting-point sake, I’d go with music. Whether I listen to the same or different song(s)-singer(s)-band(s) I seem to have a tendency of listening in restless repetition. Each time, the songs seem to make more sense than before. Each time is more addictive than before, and there is no stopping[1].

I always assume that I exhaust music, instead of the other way around. But music does from time to time exhaust me. There are moments when no matter how soft it is (or low its volume is), it hurt my ears just the same. I push myself to stop listening temporarily fearing my ears would physically be damaged. Instead of relaxing, the void agitated me. At one of my ‘musical weariness’ moments (I forgot when), I realized it was not a muscular issue. I just may need to hear something other than music. I began to realize that at these moments I listened to people’s conversation more attentively. I converse more intimately. It turned out I have been intuitively shifting from music to human speech. That’s phase two.

Being an exploiter, I treat human speeches the same way I do music. I recorded people’s conversations, and listen to them as frequent as I listen to music. Most of the time, I record them candidly, avoiding their awareness turn the conversations awkward and sour. I do various things with human speeches. I have been ripping dialogues from movies since I was in high school. Sometimes I rip only parts I found interesting (audio clipping), sometimes the whole movies, sometimes both. By so doing, I can ‘hear’ my favorite movies, anytime anywhere, as often as possible. After the absence of all the visual distractions, what I hear are the sounds of people trying to understand one another (some succeed, some fail). Every line becomes reasonable, every music’s timing feels more perfect.

When mp3 technology first knocked on my doorstep, as soon as I was done ripping all my music CDs, I converted my audio clippings and stored them also in my PC. Now they are safely stored in audio TV and audio movie directory of my iPod. Among them are the complete first and second season of West Wing, and complete first season of Gilmore Girls, Matrix trilogy, About A Boy, and of course, Seven Years In Tibet. All in all, there are now delicious 46 audio clippings and 74 audio movies and TVs.

In August 2005, Apple Inc. inserted podcasting search engine in its iTunes Music Store, all of which are free to download. My personal definition of podcast[2] is new foreign lands to explore for my ‘Columbus self’ (though most of the ‘lands’ are on the west side of the globe). I encounter many new aha experiences: hourly updated news (and found out that CNN made much progress within one fast hour), archives of radio stations’ morning shows (and found out that most of the hosts are much more content-competent that our all-talk-but-no-sense hosts), supplementary talk shows of tv programs and magazines articles (and found numerous first-hand behind-the-scene confessions), scientific talk shows (and found out that many people whose book I have read in college are very much alive, interviewed, and still pursuing their works) and, my recent favorite, book reading (and relive my childhood emotional experience of being an audience). Apple’s reintroduction of podcasting, for me, is like rain after years of waiting for water.

After a while even human speeches hurt and I decide to rest my ears. That's phase three. The ‘no sound’ experiences always turn out to be just as interesting. I listened, unavoidably, to the sounds of layers of passing cars, my orderly foot-steppings, my friends’ breathing-between-sentences, my sister’s keyboard-clickings at nights. It’s funny that things I generally perceive as silence actually have sounds, even meanings.

Gradually, the sound of silence starts to appear in obvious patterns. When that moment comes, music is again adaptable to hear, and enjoying is multiplied. It is the moment when I say, literally: That’s music to my ears.

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As of for Kun Dun’s question, Harrer’s answer was: “The absolute simplicity. That’s what I love. You have a purpose. Your mind is clear and calm. Suddenly, the light becomes sharper, sounds are richer. All you feel is the deep, powerful, presence of life”

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[1] That may explain why I have been ‘musically’ mobile for ever: past, present, and probably even future. In the 80s my favorite gadget was Walkman, the 90s was Discman, my present one is easily guessable, and my future one is predictable.

[2] Podcasting is audio broadcasts uploaded to internet servers, safely stored for us to catch missed episodes or simply collect. At its early age (around 1999-2000) podcasting was simply an audio version of blogging (that’s why its original name is audioblog). Later on, podcasting became alternative for indie radio stations. Now, everyone seems to podcast –from personal to commercial, from radios to magazines to TVs to movies, from random ranting to national security. What iTunes did was simply making podcast-googling whole lot easier.

IDEO's Idea Of Cubicle Office

2005-10-23T05:55:00.000+07:00

Scott Adams approached IDEO to create Dilbert's Ultimate Cubicle, an attempt to address the myriad issues connected with partition-based offices. The result is a modular cubicle that allows each worker to select the components and create a space based on his or her tastes and lifestyle.

You can read the details here. You can even download the pdf files. You may also want to checkout the rest of IDEO's website.

An Idea To Build A Dream On

2005-10-23T05:18:00.000+07:00

A Killed Dream (almost)
Academic life is full of interesting irony. On my first week of college, there was one class I devastatedly looked forward to and another one, with just as much devastation, I avoided. The former was Industry and Organization, and the latter was Greek Philosophy (the rest of the classes were not horrible, but they didn’t exactly made me jump and down in glee). Contrary to the myth of Greek Philosophy being boring, it turned out that it was every dreamer’s class. Mr. Hassan made philosophy sounded like both history and fairy tales. I didn’t have to fantasize anything in General Philosophy. Even better, Mr. Hassan is the king of telling the greatest tales (the combination of –est and plural noun is intentional). Not once did I skip his sessions.

Different story went with Industry and Organization. According to the department manual, in its first year Industry and Organization would talk about ergonomics, the study of product design to perfectly fit human behavior. The word ergonomics was for me synonymous to ‘promising reward’. Ergonomics is the dream of everyone who’s interested in the culture of human artifacts in the future. I had a plan that Industry and Organization, combined with Human Anthropology, would make me believe that what science promise us, Star Trek for example, is just around the corner. The class turned out to be a major blow –a dull. Apparently I had to find another way for my faith without involving my Industry and Organization class.

A Re-lived Dream
Because my classes didn’t live up to my sci-fi fantasy, I had to conduct a number of extracurricular investigations. I began to read books on computers designs. After seven years I found out that I haven’t been reading the completely right books. As interesting as they were, something was missing in those reading: a human touch. I found it from another source (surprising ones, at that): business magazines. Apparently, these magazines do better in putting mad scientists’ divine dreams in laymen terms. Besides, who else have an agenda of making the future an industry (or any time for that matter).

In May 2004, a name came up to my attention: IDEO. IDEO is a design company head-based in Palo Alto, famous for the IDEA[1] trophies they confiscated. In this particular article, IDEO did an amazing thing. Kaiser Permanente, the largest health maintenance organization, hired them to fix their waiting and assessment rooms their clients have been complaining about –which means practically the whole building. IDEO took on the challenge and got right on with the prep researches. They didn’t give Kaiser the new building they asked for, but instead they presented them a hospital with a new experience.

It may be true when people say that the best solution is the simplest one, and IDEO’s solutions fit the simple category. Patients were no longer feel intimidated because IDEO simply hid all the nasty doctors’ toys out of their sights, and patients’ social supporter no longer felt helpless because IDEO simply advised Kaiser to provide these people with enough information so that these ‘social supporter’ would actually know how to support their loved ones in social terms. IDEO saved Kaiser God knows how much dollars. Apparently IDEO does have a habit of saving its clients a lot of dollars.

The amazing part of article was what IDEO did and have done –and they have a very long long long list stated in the article. But the most amazing part of the article was how they do it. I used to enjoy seeing Mission Impossible’s Jim White reading his potential mission crews (and then the theme song started). The idea of picking people with different expertise for an excellent result was inspirational. In many ways, IDEO did the same thing. IDEO employed 350 people with expertise in product designs, computer science, sociologist, anthropologist, and cognitive psychologist, to name some. I will not spoil the story of their methods with the details, but believe me this: IDEO is a bunch of mad scientists with sane human touches.

In spite of their fame as a design company, they do a lot of something else in their kitchen. Most of what they do in gathering knowledge involve similar stuffs psychology researchers do (and for the first time I actually feel proud of having majoring that). IDEO secret recipe is that they are attempting to design human experience, not a gadget. With their method, their great gadget design has always come as an automatic added bonus. Those methods make them several steps ahead from every other design company. Maybe they even get to taste what it is to be people from the future, by creating a future piece by piece themselves (and maybe the future would actually be what they created).

IDEO’s kitchen is wide open for public. They don’t keep their enlightening methods secret. Its website actually has some dedicated sections of how they do things. Maybe it’s because for them knowledge is something to share (even to competitors). Or maybe, they know that they will always be several steps ahead (and by any means will always keep it that way). They don’t just talk about being creative to make something, but also being creative to be more creative –metacreativity. It’s all there in the website and the articles I’ve read about them (it turned out that there a lot of them).

Last week, I read a review about a book –Ten Faces of Creativity: IDEO’s Strategy for Beating the Devil’s Advocate & Driving Creativity Throughout Your Organization by Tom Kelley. Tom Kelley is one of IDEO’s top level management officers. It would be extremely interesting to walk through IDEO’s playground from a first-hand source, even if it’s only in written format. The reviewers said that it took him only five hours to finish the 300-pages book (during his LA-NY flight). A book that page-turning is my kind of book and I look forward to reading it cover to cover (so far, it is not yet available at any bookstore I browsed). At the end of the review was stated the reviewers name: Bruce Nussbaum. Bruce Nussbaum was the very person who wrote that article I read in May 2004.

God bless IDEO, Mr. Kelley, and Mr. Nussbaum for restoring my faith in the idea of the future.

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PS: A little later after the May 2oo4 article, I found out that my very Sony Ericsson T610 was the result of their craftsmanship and that it won IDEA award in the Information Technology category. I felt pseudo victorious about it, too.

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[1] IDEA is designers’ version of Oscars and Grammys.

These Are The Angels

2005-10-18T13:50:00.000+07:00

Yesterday, Nit told me that she, Doy, Chris and Bar would have a gig at 8-11 pm, and I was invited. It has been too long since the last time I saw Doy and Chris onstage so that all I can think of saying was: I will definitely be there.

I managed to get there at 11 and was lucky enough that I got to see the 40-minute overtime. I noticed instantly that all the right ingredients for a good time were there: small place, old friends, and burning liquors. I myself was tricked into having a big sip of something I thought was iced-lemon tea. I knew my throat loved the hot liquid, but I still decided it was my last drop. Alcohol was never my thing.

Judging from the tunes they played on overtime, I assumed that the booze had kicked well. Those were the tunes you sing only for old time sake. And with Chris on stage, it is guaranteed that with every passing minute the stage will only get hotter. The night was rocked perfectly.

Ironic to the view of a group of half-drunk people, I was reminded to an old poem, Human Among The Angels. Back in college, there were two poets among our peers; Nde and Cell. From time to time, Leg, Doy, and I were honored with premiere readings of their masterpieces. I have always described Nde’s work as exotic, and of Cell’s I would say calming. It never mattered what he wrote about –his happiness, despair, or even hate– they always started and ended with calm. Human Among The Angels was Cell’s.

Human Among The Angels tells a story about a man (who has spent his lifetime thinking of himself as terribly ordinary) feeling lucky of being surrounded by such angelic people. Cell was fluent in both word-play and idea-play. And I bet that all those years of being head over heels about Shakespeare is responsible for such a melodic piece. Human Among The Angels was clearly a naked truth of how he viewed his friends. When I read the piece, my boyish heart melted, while at the same time the rest of my manly-self attempted difficultly to save myself from the humiliation of feeling so girlie (I failed, of course). I’m sure that among ourselves, I’m not the only one who endured this embarrassing ordeal.

If someone thinks of you as an angel, you will get off the ground so high you would actually believe that you probably are one. Human Among The Angels made people feel that way, but Cell made me feel envious. I tried to seek explanation of how on earth a person is capable of writing such a fantastic verse. I came up with the cheapest explanation of all: Freudian’s. I made myself believe that Cell was feeling degrading of himself and that the poetry was his instrument to his own self-acceptance. Considering such feeling is socially unacceptable, he upgraded himself from subhuman to human while at the same time upgraded everyone else from human to angel. In short, I thought Cell was sick. It didn’t help much because at the very end of that thought, whether I was right or wrong, I was back admiring Cell’s work.

Someone else was a much wiser than I was (actually everybody else was wiser than I was). With Cell’s consent, Doy composed a song based on the poem. Doy, being a person capable of interpreting verbal experiences into sounds, completed the perfect sense of the poem. It was only the rough version, but already the sounds of the instruments spoke the serenity, and all the vocals –front and back– gave the feeling of godly noises.

In September 27, 1996, all of us hung out on a street corner in Bogor from late night to early day. It was Cell’s birthday. We spent the whole night sitting in circles, lighting candles[1], talking, drinking coffee, and unavoidably, singing. On the coming of the early dawn, our brain part we suspect responsible for censoring any dangerous thoughts (read: truth) coming out stopped working. Uncontrollably we told among ourselves our fantasies, hopes, and dreams[2]. I always think that part of the brain only exist in boys because when it stopped working, we became as hideously romantic as girls are. I also remember something else vividly. That night when we gather around, I felt comfortable. It felt like what Cell wrote in Human Among The Angels.

And comfortable was what I felt last night. Maybe it’s because the presence of your friends means protection to you. Comfort is what I get when they’re around: with or without singing, booze or candles. What I may need, as Cell eloquently put it, are just those angels (though drunk they may be).

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After the gig was over, Leg came to me. He said he was thinking of an idea for Human Among The Angels music video. I thought that was a nice coincidence.

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[1] Oh my God, what were we thinking
[2] After that incident, we call it Honest Hour, a moment when your censoring brain stops working and any potential damaging secret may come out.

Lost Magic

2005-10-10T01:05:00.000+07:00

It is an annual custom that in Ramadhan people began to intensively make calls (now SMS’s) to their families and (old) friends to maintain and strengthen their social bonds –silaturrahmi as they would call it. I always feel the notion ‘annual’ is ridiculous. I think you should constantly keep in touch with your friends instead of annually catching up. If it happens that you loose contact, then it’s your lost. If I find it impossible (or hard) in keeping contact (be it because our impossible schedules or the impossibly crazy phone bills), the least I can do is keeping track of what is going on with them. And spies are available everywhere for this purpose. If one day, not April 1st,to my surprise a friend’s wedding invitation arrives on my doorstep, I’ll know that I’ve neglected him/her.

It has not been difficult for me to maintain friendships, I think. The simple reason is because I think I don’t have that many of friends. Among them, there are two persons who magically disappeared: Fer and Nar. As Ramadhan –whether I like it or not– reminds me of the notion silaturrahmi, it also reminds me of them.

Losing Fer
I didn’t have any friend when I was in kindergarten. I thought school was the place where you can have all the fun for yourself, so I always played alone. On my first day of elementary school, a boy came to my seat, asking if I would share the seat with him (I said yes). On recess, he offered me to play with him. That –being asked to play with– was a novel experience for me. We became good friends ever since. His name was Fer. We were both six years old then.

Fer was the one who got me interested in drawing. He used to have a special notebook in which he drew numerous amazing pictures. His pictures always had great endless stories. He used to spread open a book, and started to work with his magic fingers and at the same time narrating the storylines and dialogues of the characters outloud. It usually took him long to finish his pictures, not because he was slow, but because he was very patient with each of his characters. He made funny noises indicating sadness, excitement, to make things more dramatic. He even composed his own soundtrack songs. Boys as we were, the stories always revolved around superheroes rescuing the helpless (no damsel in distress, I’m afraid. We know nothing of girls at the time), sometimes fighting supervillains (one of whom we named after our grouchy teacher).

Fer was a super storyteller, but not much of an artist. We found out later that I was a lot better at it. Soon after, we did the picture projects together. While he’s building up a story, I made the pictures and sometimes played opposite characters to make the dialogues more alive. I also began to familiarize myself with the songs, and sang along at the right moments. Everyday we worked on a story, and when school ended we sadly let it go, and picked it up where we left off on the next day. We did it every single day.

It was not the top of my social career. It was funny that after one friend-less year in kindergarten, what I got for a friend was another geek. But I wouldn’t t trade Fer for anything in the world. When holiday came, we lost contact for one month. We both didn’t have telephones. I had to wait for second grade to come. It was to my disappoinment that Fer moved out to another city. No teacher knew his new address. I knew I just lost a magic friend. Now, everytime I picked up a pencil, I remember the idea of Fer (I have no memory left of what he looked like).

Losing Nar
I continued to be an aloner. On my third grade, Nar saved me. Nar was way different than Fer –he was a music person. He used to sing every single minute: when waiting for the morning bell, when waiting for the class to start, when doing assignments –literally all the time. He said it was The Beatles. I was curious and he lent me one of his tapes. My first The Beatles exposure was an album called Rubber Soul. I'm Looking Through You instantly hypnotized me and I thought it kicked ass (I still do).

Nar used to tell me stories behind every Beatles’ song. It amazed me how he knew everything about them. He said his father told him everything. I was transformed into a Beatles freak myself, and started hunting for every single record available in records stores. Back then, they only costed Rp. 1250 each. The word only doesn’t imply that I could lightly buy them. I had to completely save my allowances for several weeks to afford one record. I could not afford to buy food in the cafetaria. Back then, there was an illogical social status for kid who didn’t buy foods at the cafetaria: a geek. Congratulation, I was a geek again.

In our national history, I remember there was a guy by the name of Bob Geldof came to Indonesia. News said that he went ballistic finding out that ALL records sold in Indonesia was products of piracy. He ratted our national music industries to one of international music associatons and made recommendation to boycott us. Thanks to him, our national music industry learned their first lessons on copyrights. Several months later, all record prices hiked up to Rp.4500. No thanks to Bob Geldof, that was my early years of collecting The Beatles. I grumbled to Nar: Who does he think he is, anyway? Surprise. Nar had the answer. He told me everything about Mr. Geldof. Of course, Nar was practically relaying the information he had from his dad, but that didn’t make it felt less surprising. The next day, Nar brought me one of Geldof’s records. I fell in love with Mr. Geldof as well. That was when my music engine started. Afterward, I listened to almost any music exposed to me.

Nar was a funny looking boy. He was what I called ‘The Thin Man’ (like the Wizard of Oz’s Tin Man). His posture was thin (and tall and arched), his voice is thin (and weak, and soft –enough to always put me to sleep). Even his handwriting perfectly represented himself: thin and tall (every letter would touch the base and top lines). He had appealingly big round eyeballs, but only half open (and full closed when he laughed). Everytime we were singing The Beatles tune together, I couldn’t help but noticing him making funny faces.

On the first day of my sixth grade, I found out that Nar moved to another city. I didn’t get any heads-up on this, either. Again, no teacher knew his new address. I lost my second magic friend.

---
I never know where they are now, and I have been looking for them for years. It’s hard to find Fer as I don’t remember his full name nor his face. But I do remember Nar’s so well, so when Friendster culture arrived, I thought there was a new hope to find Nar. I found (at the time) around 1500 Indonesian males by the same name. I patiently looked them up one by one, but none of them were my Nar. It crossed my mind that people’s face changes across ages, but Nar’s wouldn’t change too far from how I remember –that I’m very sure. I would recognize that weird eyes at any age.

And so the thought of Fer and Nar come across my head almost every Ramadhan.

Two Thousand Something: Silent Future, Loud Head

2005-09-23T19:18:00.000+07:00

Generation Speechless: On the First Thought
A Newsweek article with a provocative title –It’s The End Of The Word As We Know It– caught my small-span attention. It said that according to researches conducted in a number of elementary schools, there is a major decline of students’ reading comprehension. With the birth – and flash growth- of digital gaming technology, students read lesser books, and spend limitless more time on gaming both offline and online. That means more people associate Tolkien’s Lord Of The Ring to Electronic Arts’ LOTR: Battle Of Middle Earth (both PC and console versions) rather than the beautiful text versions. More and more kids learned about Sherlock Holmes from Ubisoft’s Sherlock Holmes: Silver Earring, than from what Sir Doyle originally wrote. And this is likely to continue on. If I got that correctly, it actually said that digital game consoles will hit every single bedroom, gaming CDs will replace what was once books in our shelves, and books will hit museum.

I for one am never at any time against digital technology. With a mp3 player constantly in my pocket, being 24/7 conscious of my loyal laptop’s whereabouts (and completely forgetting my wallet most of the time), subscribing three digital magazines a year, and a blog to rant in, it is definitely too late for me to detest digital culture. A friend of mine found that there are approximately five cables standing by inside my backpack. He described me as literally ‘wired’ and suspected that I have already in me something that no man in our civilization does: a digital self. But I cannot imagine my civilization turned into a book-blind environment. As digitized as I am, I still read e-books as much as I read paper books.

Reading has been not only habits, but adventures, to me. I would recommend stories to a friend like a guy pushing great cannabis to his bud. You should try this, man. This is good shit. Stories, of any sorts, are my tickets to any people’s head I choose –like in Being John Malkovich. If I choose to explicitly pretend I was the writer, I would pick an autobiography. If I choose to be an outside observer, and make out what’s inside the writers’ heads, I’d go with essays or novels. If someone asks me what’s it like reading all those books, I would say: Like being Quantum Leap’s Sam Beckett. Leaping from life to life, fixing right what once went wrong. The only different is, it is my life that I may have the chance to fix.

It is only through words that I can experience their lives, although only in pseudo fashion. I would be devastated if I know that no one reads what I've read and feels what I’ve felt anymore.

Generation X: On the Second Thought
But the history of language is a funny thing. We evolved from illiterate to a literate civilization. There was a period, I suppose, when language is a technology as fresh and magical as cell phones. Short after the introduction of language to our race, human brain capacity evolved in an amazing way and speed. We have now a brain with a volume bigger than Neanderthal’s (and significantly better looking, too, thank God). Society works unimaginably better because we are equipped with a tool to transfer our brain files to other people –and as an added bonus, we do it wirelessly, too. Great people of all time –Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Hitler, Malaka, Soekarno, Shakespeare–, through language (read: their books), managed to survive the greatest human fear of all: being forgotten. And now, a digital species is looking for a way to kill the very strength of our survival.

But maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all, video did kill radio stars, and there’s no limiting that we someday shift from language to something else more frighteningly ‘cool’. Marcel Just of Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh –one of the article’s source– said that language invention was accidental, and that it was an artifact, not the nature of man [1] and that in two hundred years from now we won’t need it to transmit knowledge. We once ditched hieroglyph to alphabet because we know knowledge transfer works better that way. I guess when we someday do ditch alphabets, it would most definitely for the same reason. What Just described would probably look like that scene in the Mission To Mars [2]. That (!) would be killer-cool and I wish to be part of it [3]. All that digital gaming is doing is probably a necessary favor for us to evolve. But if Just is right about it still being two hundred years away from now, that would be a problem. 73,000 days of waiting is no way compatible with my short-fused patience.

In the meantime, I would just have to put up with this just-say-no-to-literature generation pre-x, letting them keep their digital guns blazing, and let myself proceed daydreaming our post-linguistic civilization.

---

[1] I bet my precious iPod that Vygotsky would go nuts when he hears this.

[2] A Holywood movie about a team of astronauts from NASA bearing mission to explore Mars, but accidentally finding out instead that human species evolved from a single cell inherited by Martian. The revelation was presented in a cool 3-D hologram (the above picture would say it all).

[3] And that’s enough to distract me from my first objection about digital gaming :-)

Birthday Of A Notebook

2005-09-15T22:27:00.000+07:00

The first posting I uploaded was about my gratitude to a technical support officer of an internet provider company. That was one year ago this month, this week. Rewind a week earlier, I took an oath to make a short writing a week, a total target of 52 writings a year. This piece is a private celebration for the 33 pieces uploaded and the missing 19.

For The Thirty-Three
Being informally responsible to produce songs for his bands, Dave Matthews spent five hours a day for years practicing writing lyrics. He always felt lousy at it. Considering how their first three studio albums turned out -especially my favorite piece: Lie In Our Graves- it’s scary to think that Mr. Matthews chose the term ‘lousy.’ Rumor has it that Tony Hawk spent ten hours of skating practice for years of his teenage days. He was a magic rookie. Only after months of participating in various skateboarding competitions, the 17-year-old Hawk beat Christian Hosoi and Steve Caballero, two living legends of skating world in the late 80’s. I read many books about extraordinary people as I love historical events and the people in it. Reading about these people, I realize that I envied their accomplishments probably only for a matter of hours. I do, however, envy something else more and I envy it permanently.

The best parts of these books are the endless chapters of their descriptive statements on their ordinary daily experiences. It was amazing how they could be so articulate about what and how the little happenings in their life meant for them. The words they chose fit perfectly as if they were tailor-made in the dictionary for each of them, and for each of them only.

In his addiction years: Dave Matthews managed to come up with something as solid as this[1]:

Twenty three, I’m so tired of life
Such a shame, thrown it all away
Images grow darker still
Could I have been anyone other than me.

It was a horrible thing to write and the topic of pathetic life is devastatingly a cliché. But the words chosen and how they were sequentially put, took away the cliché feel. When a thought is shared in a subjective fashion it will leave a beautiful scent, no matter how horrible the topic is.

Several years after his addiction life-stage, Dave wrote another song describing his new exciting, fruitful and contented life. He wrote[2]:

I can’t believe that we would lie in our graves
Wondering if we spent our living days well
I can’t believe that we would lie in our graves
Thinking of things that we might have been

It was a statement of happiness in a way I have never encountered before.

The same level of detail and articulation reflected from every person whose biography I’ve read[3]. I think that their obsessions did that to them. If someone experiences little things for hundreds of time, what else would become of him/her but articulate? I envy that about them and I want such a life feature for myself. It is the reason I copy their habit of making sense of little things in my passing days. It is why I named it on daily basis.

For The Nineteen
Steven Martin, comedian / writer / actor / (now also) director, once wrote that a writer’s block was nothing but a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol. As I’ve been spending a paranoid year, going through each day anticipating something writeable from anything that came my way, I come to a suspicion that there may be a big truth to what Mr. Martin said. Not a single day went by that I didn’t have anything to write. Many things happened, and many of them I can somehow feel connected. Each day, I look forward to write them down.

The problem was that despite the interconnectedness, I have no idea how to put them within a silver line. I spend many nights sitting facing my laptop, jotting down notes of what happened making sure nothing is left behind, preparing the next articles. When my weekly deadline comes closing in I would review the notes. Often I was too excited reading them and remembering the items written. Reading a-week-note is like watching movie in fast forward. It’s like walking backward a step at a time to get an appropriate distance so that the gigantic picture in front becomes clearer and clearer. It’s like the more memories retrieved, the more backward step I earned. The more I gradually get what the picture is, the more excited I am. And it’s hard to give it up.

I had to choose between writing (that means giving up the good feeling of reviewing the notes), and screwing the deadline (and go ahead with reading the notes). So I lost 19 pieces.

---
[1] Excerpted from Dancing Nancies (Under The Table And Dreaming album)
[2] Excerpted from Lie In Our Graves (Crash album)
[3] The latest one I read is Sting’s autobiography: Broken Music. I highly recommend it to you.

The House of Stones, Lights, and Guilty Pleasures

2005-09-13T14:03:00.000+07:00

Ten years ago my parents bought a house in rural Bogor. For several years we had a tradition; all of us would pack up and spend our weekends there. Back then, my parents found no problem at all to drag their children to come along. All Bogor had to offer us —me, my brother, my sister — to let Jakarta go was a cool climate and a freezing shower; never mind TV and stereo set. Then things started to change. My mom and dad apparently, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, raised three hyperactive geeks. Not long afterwards, cool climate and freezing shower were no longer adequate incentives for us. And they began to spend their weekends in Bogor without us.

Year after year, they would find any mean and way necessary to advertise the house to lure us back. All their efforts were in vain. After a while, their broken hearts began to show on their faces. But by the time we realized that, we were already up to our necks with our own schedules. There was nothing we could do because, greedy as we were (and still are), we didn’t want to give up any of our activities. After some more while our guilt disappeared because our parents seemed to be doing okay spending weekends without us. It has been that way for more than five years now.

Around two months ago, our Jakarta house started to feel a lot emptier. My mom had been missing a lot lately. When asked, she simply said that she was taking care of the Bogor house[1]. For many weeks in a row now, she was never around at all. And on weekends, even my dad disappears. Although mom is known for her invisibility, it is always simple to detect her absence. No matter how busy she is, mom always magically finds the time to cook us something that I would call the extraordinary dining experiences. When the dishes are absent, so was my mom. There has been nothing extraordinary on our dining table for more than a month now.

Apparently, to say that my parents are doing okay in Bogor without us was an understatement. They’re actually doing great. For quite some time they have been indulging themselves renovating the house. Either they never mentioned anything to us their children, or that their three children have become so ignorant of their parents’ pleasure. My sister was the first to know about their secret project. One night she told me giggling that the house is under a severe ongoing cosmetic procedure and that explained why mom is never around. So the news about the house had spread around.

Finally, it was my time to pay the house a visit. I was surprised. That was no cosmetic project. That was a surgery! The house looks like the city of Rome in ruins, but my parents were extremely happy –you can see it in their eyes. They know exactly how the house would finally look like with every single brick laid. I never saw my parents trapped in a long discussion before. They barely speak much with all the private sign language they developed themselves –which looks more like little eyes-and-hand-gestures play. I know they have a habit of collecting books on interior designs: houses in small spaces, gardens and patios, secrets of furniture, etc. But how our house is turning into showed that have been fighting to read all those small texts instead of only drooling over the big beautiful pictures.

They did however, have something to brag about. The second I stepped in the house, the first thing my mom said was, “see the bathroom.” The bathroom was a big surprise. For the first time, I can see where my artistic intuition came from. And also for the first time, I can see clearly where my sense of humor came from! The bathroom was so beautiful it was confusing. It was too comfortable I could have mistaken it for a bedroom. And there were enough plants to have it mistaken for a garden. There were so many wrong things in the wrong places: a vase that was once a teapot and hotel shampoo container that was once an ashtray. Everthing was a representation of genius comedy. I came out laughing, and my dad laughed in return, agreeing.

I spent the whole night listening to their plan –and they have a great architectural plan. I went upstairs to see my parent’s little garden of cabbages, tomatoes, and things that only God and botanists know what. I see that mom didn’t forget to plant something from our homeland: chili. I can only imagine the exploding numbers of pots there will be around within two weeks time.

With all the mess, it was shocking that a house that half-finished was as lethal as a giant sleeping pill. I slept most of that weekend. It was very brave of me to neglect the homeworks I brought along. Nonproductive weekends have been guilty pleasures for me, but I think it was a totally different case when you put your parents in the process.

I don’t know if renovating the house is a part of a bigger plan, say: to lure us back to the house, which I strongly doubt. But if there was a slightest chance that it is true, well it bloody worked. That was all I did this weekend: to find out that my parents are actually disturbingly cool.

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[1] My mom and the house is a lot like me and my laptop. We always make sure everything is clean and tidy and we do it ourselves simply because we hold dear the motto: trust no one.

Pain In The Ass Doesn’t Have To Be In The Ass

2005-07-31T19:53:00.000+07:00

It has been a funny month, if not lousy. And here’s why.

It May Be In Your Legs
After several weeks of absence, I began jogging again. I noticed there was pain in both my legs. I ignored them thinking my legs forgot how to jog and they would adapt later. After some jogging sessions later, I noticed something funny about the pain. Jogging pain usually comes after a period of rest, say an hour of sleep, instead this one hit me right at the first time I stomped my leg on the ground. Even then, I still thought something funny going on with my leg. Now it’s not so funny anymore. The pain doesn’t go away and now it even hurts to walk –that, I believe it is not a good thing.

I made a plan to see a doctor, but before I could even do that, I had an emergency trip to Bali. I reluctantly asked my legs to bear some degree of pain for some time since I didn’t know when I would be back. The leg thing was only the beginning. In Bali something more hilarious happened.

It May Be In Your Finger
In Bali, I stayed in a very decent hotel. It was a good morning, I wake up with a good mood, and was ready to let go my good sleeping mood. I stretched my neck, hands, and legs, and accident happened right then at 8 am Bali time.

Apparently there was a sharp five-millimeter-wide-and-seven-millimeter-long wood piece sticking out of the bed head, and out of one-against-ten-million chances, it chose to stab one of my right finger –right there between the nail and the soft flesh, right then at my good morning body stretch.

The flesh and the nail quickly squeezed the wound in. I knew they meant well –to have the wound covered promptly— but they seemed to be absent-minded about one minor detail: the wood piece was still inside. It was closing so fast and tight there wasn't even a drop of blood coming out. I tried to do justice between handling the pain and pinning out the wood, two attempts of which I failed.

There were two friends in the room whom I could ask for help. Friend Number One failed to even see the wound with her ‘maturing’ eyes and Friend Number Two was still asleep. Although I knew that it would be nowhere wise to ask such help from a person barely conscious, I did anyway because my pain insisted otherwise. His shocked and disgust reaction toward the appearance of my finger assured me to cross him out of my help-list. However, I still apologized for ever giving him a bad morning sight.

Wisely, Friend Number One called emergency and had someone over. The hotel sent a room service staff. “What the hell did they send a room service for? Clean up my blood stain from the bed sheet? There were NO drop of blood!” The second he gazed at my finger he gave a facial reaction exactly the same as Friend Number Two. I forgot about blowing up, I laughed –just a little. With his eyes avoiding not just my finger but the entire me, he advised me to go to clinic for help. And went I did, and out of grace, my two friends came along.

The clinic staff could not help, and I loved her reason –-her ‘maturing’ eyes could not see the wound. So she called a doctor and let me talked to him. I told him the situation and that I think my nail had to be removed. The doctor on-duty asked, “Sir, I have the medicine and tools required, and I need half hour to get there. I know it’s painful, but can you hang on?” Funny he should ask because except I have a device to beam him up to my room, I didn’t have any choice, but his sympathy for my pain made me patiently answered, “Of course, Doc.”

We had our breakfast while waiting for the good doctor. My two friends constantly put on worry faces when what I actually needed was for them to crack some hilarious jokes as they usually do to distract me from the pain. They said they couldn’t think of one. I kept lying and said I was okay, but my face didn’t exactly cooperate. If I were Pinocchio, my nose would grow so long I could reach a tea cup from the table across. After a short breakfast, we went up to our room and continue waiting. I could feel the pain moving up my finger with every minutes that passed by

When the doctor took a look at my finger, he agreed that the nail had to be removed. While having a friendly chat, he gave me four anesthetic shots, two of which right at the end of my finger –the ground zero of the pain. He assured me it was okay because after a while the two previous shots would have already numbed my finger. He may be right, but apparently we didn’t wait long enough, so the next two shots were dead pain. I said to the Doc, “Oh, what the hell. Keep it going” and continue screaming.

It was time for the main attraction: the nail extraction[1]. He made sure my finger was numb enough. This time we waited for an appropriate duration. There was a funny sight of him attempting to extract my nail, because it seemed to put a decent fight to stand its ground. After that, he removed the wood piece. Good thing I didn’t feel a thing. Afterward, he bandaged my finger, reminded me to have it replace in several days, and gave two sets of pills: an antibiotic and a painkiller. He said I would need them when the shots stop kicking. Boy, he was right.

Forward three days later, I went to a hospital to have the bandage removed. A macho male nurse, who probably thinks every male species on this earth is as strong as he is, swiftly took it off without any painkiller, mercy, nor at least a warning. The bandage was already stuck to the wound on the nerve-ending that had not healed enough. I reacted accordingly the nerve-ending’s name: pain nerve –I screamed the hell out my lung. It was a pain ten fold than when there was a wood piece stuck and the nail removed combined. And it was a long pain. I knew there was a magnificently good reason why that soft part of our fingers is protected by a skin modified so hard to what we call as nails, and this nurse seemed to forget it.

He told me, nicely, to come back in three days to have the bandage replaced again. He’s got to be kidding. I was sure he meant, “Please come by later and let me hurt you again.” And the story keeps getting better and better.

It May Be In Your Eyes
By the time I was about to remove the second bandage, it was my right eye’s turn to do something funny. It was red –the kind of red which people turned their faces away when seeing it. First my leg, then my finger, now my eye. It had been expelling almost a bucket of liquid for almost three days, and hurt to just open it. From a bandage-removal appointment with a nurse, I continue with quick appointment with an optician.

There was a good news and a bad news. The good news is that it was not caused by virus so it was not contagious. The bad news is it was something that had been there for quite a while. He said that most of the blood vessels in my right eye were swollen, but I was lucky that the ones in my cornea are safe.

I’m an illustrator and human vision is an interesting subject for me. I know principally how our eyes mechanically work, I read about it, marvel at it, and even teach the damn subject in my class. I know what the doctor saying is bad, but I need to confirm it to a term I understand most, “And that’s bad, Doc?”. He said, “That is quite bad considering it has been some time.” I pretty much understood that sentence. He prescribed me one eye-drop to use every two hours for several days until I empty the bottle, two sets of four-times-a-day pills. Four pills a day for eye problem must mean a big deal.

I remember an optician I went to see six months ago. I confessed to her that I have skipped using my eye glasses since high school. After examining my eyes, she made a good guess that I work constantly face-to-face to a monitor. After nodding to her guess, I got a harsh 20 minutes of warning speech of how what I do is dangerous. She told me to get back to my glasses.

Having seen an overdue second opinion, I realized that the first doctor wasn’t kidding. Now I have two doctors ordering me to lay off monitor for a while. If for some reason I have to, do it no more than one hour, rest my eyes for an hour at least before head-to-head with my computer again. Imagine how long that took me to finish this writing.

Now I’m an illustrator who can’t use my finger for a while and a computer freak who has limited of visual access, also for a while. I promise to take my legs seriously before I turn to a routine jogger who can’t even walk without a sting of pain on them.

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[1] It’s a term I learned from the bill he wrote me.

Sith Child O’ Mine

2005-05-21T23:28:00.000+07:00

The story hasn’t been a secret even long before written. There will be a massive number of deaths (espescially on the Jedi side), Padme will give birth to twins, and Anakin will enrage and turn Sith. But the question is not what would happen, but how would it happen. Judging from the two previous episodes, people will still get in line to witness this part of the legendary saga. And according to Time Magazine two weeks ago, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith is obviously the darkest Star Wars episode.

On my way home after the movie,
I thought of these and realized
how possessive I am about Star Wars.

A Sweeth Memory
There was a grand nostalgia from the very first second the movie started: pilots helping one another in crowded space battlefields, few Jedi Knights on a mission fighting comical droids and animal-like aliens. Everything is pretty much the same. Even after five movies, the dialogues were equally stiffy, how the actors performed are still not worth analyzing, and the jokes are still not worth laughing [1]. However, this Revenge added some new scents. Some succeeded, some failed.

Revenge is surprisingly packed with love scences between Anakin and Padme. Lucas had to show the audience how much Anakin loved Padme. Anakin’s love is what justified his conversion in the first place. But all these mellow scenes looked bad. Similar to the blooming love between Solo and Leia, Anakin-Padme’s couplings were rather comical than heartfelt. His verbal expression souded like a playboy’s words rather than a knight desperately in love. I wished Lucas picked different dictions, or better yet, asked Nora Ephron [2] to write them over. Lucas was always good at painting passion onto a giant screen, but I guess when writing romance, The Force isn’t with him.

The fights were also felt like new. The fighting coreography boasted overwhelming speed and involved many high jumps. I lost count of the super fast saber fights scenes. More importantly, this time Lucas didn’t forget the whole idea of a fight: emotion —anger, hate, fear, pity, (maybe even love). All these are blended in the final fights between Anakin and Obi-Wan. It is sad to see two friends turned enemies. Over other movies, I know I would shed a bit of tears, but not over Star Wars. But I was wrong. After beating Anakin, Obi-Wan shouted crying, “You were my brother, Anakin.” Somehow it felt real, and I felt sad. I thought, This is the real love scene!

There is something special about Star Wars. The movies are different than others that you cannot make any comparison. Therefore, final judgment cannot fall between good and bad. Although there weren’t any surprise —almost disappointing, even— I’ll bet it won’t be long untill I see it for the second time. Because general rule doesn’t apply on Star Wars.

Not a Sweeth Memory nor Revenge
The confusion it inflicted me was also familiar. When I first saw Empire [3] in 1981, I expected Luke to show some heroic stunts as he did in New Hope [4]. What I found was shocking. The Rebel and Jedi were flat defeated. Not only Luke was beaten bad by Vader, he even fled to exile. The Emperor —that means: Sith— was victorious. I was only a kindergarten kid and already I had to watch my hero lost, failed, and ran away. A kid my age can only think of one name for someone who flees: coward. I lost faith in one of my hero and there were no one to explain it to me.

In Revenge, many things also happen to Anakin. He was furious for feeling not being trusted by the Jedi Council he respected. He’s been having nightmares about his beloved wife Padme died giving birth. To make things worst, it is only Sith power that can save her. He was so conflicted and mad, he became aggressive. For Padme’s sake, he plegded himself to the dark side, and accepted his first duty: to kill all the Jedi. He went back to the Jedi Temple to slay them, even the very young ones.

I cannot imagine how stressfull it is for kids to watch their hero became the unthinkable —a savage. At the theatres, I saw many kids machine-gun asking their dad. And I overheard that many of those dads gave disappointing aswers. One of them even said, “Yes, he became evil, son, but the hero is Luke all along.” I thought, boy, even the fathers couldn’t understand what Jedi Council meant by balance to the force. It simply means that Anakin is the a necessity ‘instrument’ to end the war, not necessarily to help win the war. Anakin will again, continue his Jedi lesson through his descendant, Luke.

Fathers don’t need to have that answers. They don’t even have to see and like Star Wars. And their answers weren’t totally wrong either. But I do think a father needs to work harder in answering questions about love, hate, death posed by children [5].

That possessive I am
The title, hence

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[1] The only funny thing about Star Wars is Harrison Ford.
[2] Nora Ephron is a writer-director. Among of her famous flicks are Sleepless in Seattle, and You’ve Got Mail.
[3] Episode V: Empire Strikes Back
[4] Episode IV: A New Hope
[5] The same thing happen to Lion King. Many kids asked why Mufasa (Simba’s father) had to die. I read somewhere that many parents failed to answer it properly. I also read somewher that many schools and parents blamed Disney.

Interpreting The Sign

2005-05-17T09:15:00.000+07:00

Last week a friend of mine, Ti, called inviting me to her class to talk about sign language. There was a slight urge to drop the offer, because I’m not a prominent person on the subject and I don’t think I know how to talk to a bunch of 8-year-old. I gave her the I’ll-check-my-schedule-and-get-back-to-you-later excuse, but the day after I insanely said yes.

I didn’t regret my decision, though. It turned out I did well, or rather my friends have prepared these kids amazingly well that I can relate with them easily. We talked about history, deaf people, practised alphabets, and small amount of vocabulary. These kids asked me many signs and sentences —like you’re beautiful, you’re tall, you’re naughty, you’re my friend, I like you, I like singing. The second they got the answers —and this is the amazing part—, they promptly signed them to their friends. They didn’t want the class to end (and I didn’t either), but I did have to go. They yelled thank you all the way I was leaving untill I disappeared behind the school walls. Thank God I forgot my magazine that I had to go back to the class for a quick last look at them. I kept that picture of them having lunch in my head safe and well.

I couldn’t get that class day off of my head. I kept thinking about that class and starting to trace back how on earth I ended up with this signing thing in the first place.

An Encounter of the Third Kind
My dad told me to be mindful of language. He taught me to love my language and to use others’ with respect. At the time I thought that by ‘language’, he meant speech —Indonesian, English, Japanese, Chinese, etc. Later on, still on my early age, I found that also a language is pictures. Sir Tino Sidin taught me that. He always said that picture speaks of stories.

Later on I found a friend with a language I didn’t realize exist —signs. It hits me that all this time people understand each other because people speak fact and utter feelings through body language. This separate system makes a message whole and understandable. But the great thing about sign language is that facts and feelings are encoded into one system! No separation! Imagine the strength. That would probably by far measure elimate our difficulties of saying what we feel.

A Book to Sign and a Sign of Doubt
Not long after, I lost contact with my deaf friend and signing is the only thing I can do to respect her memories. I looked for a signing dictionary, but never found any. The best I could come up with is body language in flirting —that’s nowhere near my subject of interest. For weeks I stopped by any different bookstore, hoping to find one —just one, please.

Failed, I made a Plan B. I began to hunt and collect every movie I know related to sign language. I would watched the characters signing and tried to make out what it meant. I made a small list of vocabulary I’ve collected. I drew little pictures of fingers, hands, sometimes faces included. I made myself a dictionary of my own.

Around 1993, there was a TV series called Reasonable Doubt. It tells a story about a deaf public district attorney who has faith in the justice and its system (played by Marlee Matlin) and a lost-faith-in-justice detective who happens to know his way around signing, thus assigned to help her. The series was my heaven of learning. It was my dictionary. Every week I taped them, and play them through and through. I had to watch super closely to match the signs to the words. There was no (movie) editing software at the time and no way to slow the tapes down. The series made the largest vocabulary contribution to my dictionary. I still kept the book, possibly for some sentimental reasons.

When my dad took me to US for a week plus in 1997, I spent every day hunting sign language dictionary. It turned out that, there, it wasn’t a popular subject either. One bookstore to which I came to every day finally found one copy. The manager even gave me one for free, probably because he pitied me. That, or because I came and bought one book each day [1]. I was so surprised and excited that my respond was too embarassing to tell. I read it walking all the way my hotel [2]. Arrived at home, I cross-checked every vocabulary in my own dictionary and found most of them correct. I still remember the name of the author: Elaine Costello. It was primacy effect.

In 1998 Amazon succeeded as one of the most famous online bookstore. Hell, it made it as the most famous website! Its search engine found me more than sixty titles on ‘sign language’ subject. 60! Needing for my university final paper, I bought some. One of them is the delicious giant dictionary of American Sign Language. I even managed to have myself some books on psychology of deafness and the linguistic view of sign language! Internet is heaven. If you look closely, the sign is everywhere.

Noble Ibu Gia
It was hard to master a language when you don’t have a sparring partner. I was somewhat fluent giving signs, but my reading skill gave deaf community a bad name. Every several years I manage to find someone whom I poisoned into liking it. I would teach him/her the basic and started conversation in signs regularly. My first partner was Rid, from 1993. Rid helped me a lot with my first dictionary. When we graduated high school in 1994, Rid moved to Bandung. There were several partners after him, but not one of them lasted more than several weeks. I would then again be the lonely apprentice.

I never stopped learning signs. I love ‘communication’ (both oral and sign) even more and collected numerous journals on deaf culture, too. Through a very dear friend of mine, Tante Ann, I came across the noble Ibu Gia.

Tante Ann said that Ibu Gia had a deaf 10-year-old son, Christopher. Chris went to a mainstream school, not the school for “special kids.” That’s where he wanted to stay, and Ibu Gia fought the school for him to stay. Chris didn’t have any problem with school materials, but did have problems making friends. Not because he’s introvert, but because no one would understand what he tried to say —what he signed. This mother asked the school to provide a sign language class, and since no signing teacher was available, she volunteered.

Tante Ann talked to the headmaster and won the permission for me joining the class. I was afraid that Ibu Gia would feel reluctant about me, but on the contrary, she was excited about having me as her student. For three months, I studied sign with 15 kids from 5 to 12 years old. She conducted a fantastic class, and was a great teacher. She made friends with the kids and, most importantly, made Chris had many friends. There were games, quizzes, foods, laughs for each session. Every morning before class, she would brief me the day’s activity via phone. Sometimes when she’s stucked some place else, she would ask me to be in charge of the class. I knew then that the classroom scenes in Kindergarten Cop [3] wasn’t exaggerating.

Surprisingly, I made it through the class okay. The kids liked me and I liked them more. They love asking my age and I began to like my age. Some of the questions they posed were quite difficult to answer, like: why is your name adih?

A Sign of Dedication
When I was playing guest for Ti’s class, I thought a lot about Ibu Gia; The day we were introduced, the games we played in classroom, the cookies she baked us, the stories she told me about Chris, the feeling she had about being a mom of a deaf boy. I even recalled the sound of her high-pitched voice and how nice it sounded. I thought in Ti’s class, ‘This must have been what Ibu Gia felt.’ I was looking for a sparring partner so long, I actually found a teacher. I wish I hadn’t lost my cellphone so that I could still call her.

I need to say:
For the books you gave me, class you provided me, friends you introduced me: Thank You.

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[1] mostly Calvin and Hobbes, which is also rare back home.
[2] bad habit I still do until this day
[3] Kindergarten Cop tells a story of a kid-hater cop (Arnold Schwartzenegger) going undercover at a kindergarten where a possible kidnapping might happen.

In Gabriel’s Eyes

2005-05-16T01:04:00.000+07:00

One day, either it was just an out-of-the-ordinary day or Starbucks changed its music playlist (or more, its music director), the place didn’t play jazz tunes as it usually does. Instead, it played some great songs of the 80s. Even David Bowie’s Heroes [1] made the playlist. The punchline, for me, was when they played Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes. It was a surprise —good one— since never before a public hangout place played any of his tunes, at least not that I know of. And I never suspect that such place would be the ‘jazzy’ Starbucks.

As the song went, my mind gazed to my Ponti days. Around 1996, there was a period when every early morning for several weeks we played Peter Gabriel’s Secret World Tour Live laser disc. When played, it would wake up the rest of us, and joined whoever pushed play. We would make admiration remarks on the band, the music, the stage sets, the lights, the cameras—anything! We would danced along (yes, I danced!) doing those funny footwork with the band, especially the one on Shaking the Trees.

They ended the show with In Your Eyes. I think the song fits perfectly as a closing as it started with ease and ended with glee, from empty to full instruments, from only one vocal to many. A solemn start with joyous end would definitely left the show lingering in everyone’s head for days. That stage act was not only musical, but theatrical. It always puzzled my friends that I —a dance and theatre hater— would actually enjoy Mr. Gabriel.

I think In Your Eyes tells a man’s [2] adoration toward his love [3]. Gabriel described him as a genuine life fighter —which I think he meant workaholic. The peace and the comfort he lacked, he could only find in her. And there is where he wanted to stay. I notice Gabriel put a contradictory personality on the girl. Though it’s peace and comfort she yielded, it didn’t necessarily make her a calm person, but lively instead. Thus the man said, “I see the light, the heat, in your eyes.”

Gabriel left Genesis after a long mouth fight in 1976 and replaced by Phil Collins. Both Gabriel and Genesis (and Collins) are famous in separate fashion. It may be correct that Collins didn’t make Genesis’ song theme any different than Gabriel’s, but Genesis did changed and people noticed. Though both are very much emotional at heart, Gabriel’s more emotional traits made him spiritual. Where Collins describes love mostly as playful (Two Hearts, Can’t Hurry Love, etc), Gabriel digs it deeper (Secret World, Kiss The Frog, —surprise!— In Your Eyes). His choice of words shows it clear (instinct, burn, doorway, fruitless, etc) and his sentences even more (I will touch this tender wall [4], I’m a man whose faith has long deserted [5]). Why do you think the band was named Genesis [6] in the first place?

Gabriel doesn’t only projects his spiritual side through words, but also tunes and sounds. I don’t think he’s satisfied with the vibe acoustic instruments make that he amplified it by playing electric keyboard and computer. Mostly he makes sounds of nature more magical. He would make birds sound chirpier, low frequency sounds sharper, or combines keyboard sounds with human voice. At first, this made sounds feels fabricated rather than spiritual, but later on he managed to suit things more to the way he wanted them felt.

Gabriel illustrated In Your Eyes in rich various ways. On this tour, he collaborated with vocalist Paula Cole, bassist Tony Levin, violinist Paul Shankar, guitarist David Rhodes, and drummer Manu Katche— all of which are famous for the very value Gabriel is famous of: spirits. It is easy to find that Cole as the most immature one. While others has reached stable and calm phase, she still sing with somewhat rage[7]. Even so, Gabriel still managed to calm Cole down. Also as an additional player, Manu Katche was a perfect catch. He played In Your Eyes as if notes came out of his toms and cymbals: from light to deep, soft to little hard, and empty to rapid. This may sound strange, but Gabriel even managed to make Katche, a sitting drummer—I’m emphasizing—, dancing on his seat along with the rest of the band.

In early 90s, Gabriel’s love to African music began to show more acutely. I suspect the spirits of both African beats and vocal accommodate him perfectly. As if he found his lost love, Gabriel collaborated with a number of African musicians: vocalist, percussionist —you name it[8]! In Secret World Tour, he played —the way a child does— with these musicians. One of them is Papa Wemba[9]. All the African souls on stage strengthen what the Gabriel’s ‘man’ saw in ‘her’ eyes.

Gabriel is a musician whom I know is very much aware that various forms of symbols in communication are available to tweak— visual, audio, touch and speech. He orchestrated every band member to play not only with tunes, but also sounds. He conducted all the people on stage to dance in the most honest sense —to move naturally. All these elements on stage are what he tried to convey as ‘the light and heat’ —the lively atmosphere. He made me and my Ponti friends aware of that atmosphere. He made us dance. He made me dance.

PS:

It is interesting that Gabriel is named after an angel whose job is to convey God’s messages to its prophets —an angel of communication, in a way.
I decided that Starbucks would probably be a good choice of place to write at. When writing, they’re playing jazz tunes :-)

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[1] Later made popular again by Jacob Dylan’s band (Bob Dylan’s son) —The Wallflowers.
[2] This would apply to women, too, I guess.
[3] Considering the lyrics, the word ‘love’ suits more than ‘woman’ or ‘girlfriend’
[4] Excerpted from In Your Eyes
[5] Excerpted from Don’t Give Up
[6] Read: Book Of Genesis.
[7] In 1997 Paula Cole released her second album This Fire. Some rage she has.
[8] He made the term ‘world music’ famous.
[9] If memory serves, he’s the guy singing the overwhelming African chant in the opening song of Disney’s Lion King.

You Can Have My Fire, Please

2005-05-02T19:03:00.000+07:00

Last week a friend of mine lost his friend. This, I later found out, was a friend with whom he fought side by side beating their addiction. I wasn’t around when the news broke, but our mutual friend was there. She said his face went pale and his low tone of voice —much lower than his usual low— signified he was sadder than saddest. It took him only few minutes to “pull himself together” and be his usual self, one who cracks comedy and humour as a mean to save himself from being grey (a color of state of which I sadly suspect is his true usual self).

Of all the total differences between us[1], there was a tiny bit of similarity. We are both learning to write, only his is mostly poetry (something I have no idea how to compose). Finding out his comic side requires no genius. He picked simple words, simple themes, wrapped them with muse and carefully hid his deep contemplations. Sometimes I sense that he hides from contemplation itself. When around him, joke is all around and love is all vapour (few would realize that he is waiting for one). The joke part is what clicks him and me in the first place.

The poems he uploaded are always automatically forwarded to my email. His poem, one of which last night landed on my email account, was a praise and farewell wish for his just-last-week belated friend. He wrote his pride, sadness, and fear all in unbelievably short 22 lines. It’s the first time I read him being honest to himself. It’s the first time I read he wrote something with a complete ending (his poems usually stops as he begins wandering around).

It’s funny how the death of a meaningful person can complete your full thoughts. I remember showing the ‘our mutual friend’ the only writing I love, the one about my dead ‘cousin’. I love it because it ended as my thought ended, unlike all others that ended while my thoughts still seemed to scatter. She said it was because I’ve thought about it for long and the death made it easier for me to skip my speculations of what would happen to us, so that I could go straight to summarizing what and how she meant for me. I think the same happened to Go. He finally finished his thought of the matter. I don’t know whether it’s because he is finally able to do it, or he finally let himself do it. Either way, as I once felt relief of the mind-release, I’m truly glad he did.

As I said earlier, there seems to be a scaleful of sadness in him. Our mutual friend even expressed it as fire-less. The death of his friend seemed to make it worse. Ironically, every sign charts says I’m all fire —fire Arian (is it not enough that Aries is represented by Mars —The God of War?), and a fire dragon (it’s enough I am a dragon. I have to be a fiery one, too?). I don’t know if such chart is true. If so, I don’t know if it’s logo fire (a shining light) or hell fire. I don’t wish to burn him, but if it is logo, please have much of mine.
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[1] We’re both shower freak: that means he takes shower frequently while mostly I avoid any. He’s a fashion bank while my daily costumes is as good as uniforms. He speaks eloquantly calm and short, while I do it like a train —long running and loud. Eating bread, he loves the white-middle part and leaves the delicious crust to me.

Can Everyone But Us Really Write?

2005-04-23T03:18:00.000+07:00

“Have you read Time 100? It is depressing as much as it is amazing. I don't know which one should come first”

In college, writing —for me— changed from behavior of documenting into behavior of surviving. I lived in a house in which every single person is good at writing. Everyday there was always some new essay assignments. I spent years reading, admiring their works and thinking mine will never be as good as theirs. The whole time, I was being paranoid that they would make fun of my works. I put passwords on all of my essay documents. I named my essay folders ‘family businesses’ as placebo and even placed interesting folders (including porn) next to it as distractions for potential intruders. Not once have I the courage to ask them for feedbacks. And years of paying attention on how their skill grew and evolved multiplied my insecurities exponentially. I didn’t even have the nerve to ask them to read my final paper until Leg and Ten saved me one day away from my deadline. The two of them strongly ignored me, took my files away and read them. My work was mutilated on various pages. Even so, I still continued hiding my works afterwards.

After graduated, I continued writing no more than as mean of documenting my thoughts. As I was still hiding my works I decided to end my fear. I decided to get it over with and let people mutilate my words. And that was my 2003 New Year’s resolution, hence this blogger. On daily basis, I have them uploaded and have some people read and critize them. Though ‘insults’ came from all over directions, I felt relax now that I am finally out in the open.

Some years ago, at some bookstore, I read a book of which title I forgot that said writing behavior is so natural it is encoded in our genes as one of our survival equipments. Some part of our brain responsible for sexual instinct and behaviors are actually also working when we write. In fact, our sexual behaviors itself, being aimed to create successors, are actually writing behaviors (encrypting even) of genetic codes. Though convincing experimental evidences were exposed on the text, I found it hard to believe such statement was true. I can easily spot numerous of people around me who writes more embarrassing than I do. Most people even said that they don’t even know what to say in oral, let alone in writing.

Writing seems to be so natural that it may come out abnormally. Alice Flaherty, a neurologist at Massachusetts General Hospital wrote a book, The Midnight Disease[1], about how and why we write. Interestingly, Flaherty suffered hypergraphia —a disorder of whom the sufferer constantly has the urge to write. Flaherty writes whenever (morning, day, night, night, and night) and wherever (on a piece of paper, her handkerchief, her office table, her clothes, even worse, on toilet walls).

If writing is so natural, why do people find it hard to do? Maybe it was right. One of my leisure activities is watching behind-the-scene interviews from any movies of my DVD collections. It always amazes me how everyone (directors, actors, actresses, costume designers: everyone) is able to analyze and interpret the characters articulately. Most of the local actors and actresses I know can only tell fragments —descriptive part of the movie (fragments which I finally see them myself), and they do that in stutters and deformed grammar. If speech is such a problem, it is no mystery that the same is applied to writing. Maybe the problem was not that the research was wrong, but because of the speech problems they have, the research findings can’t be applied to them.

It was depressing watching local TV to find out that almost everyone interviewed was babbling nonsense. It was more depressing watching "non-local" TV to find out that everyone interviewed speaks crystal-clearly, and crystal-comprehensive, (and sharp, too). Do these articulate people write as beautiful as they speak? I spent months browsing the web, looking for any writing by these people. I found very few, but I did find many school papers written by “non-local students”. As I suspected —and feared— they do write good works.

Reading Time 100[2] added up my desperation. I was okay reading Henry Kissinger’s article on his fellow junior Secretary of State, Condeleezza Rice. I was also okay finding out article on Martha Stewart’s comeback from prison was written by fellow CEO Donald Trump.

It was okay when a president writes about their fellow president, politician about their fellow politician, CEO about their fellow CEO, but many articles are shocking me not only because what was written, but who wrote them. Lisa Marie Presley (yes, The King’s daughter) wrote well about Melissa Etheridge strength as a singer, songwriter, and most of all, cancer survivor. Bob Geldof (of whom I admired since 14 years old) pulled a great job describing Chancellor Gordon Brown’s persistent fight for Africa. Sure both Presley and Geldof write song, but isn’t writing a composition a different thing? Wife of Christopher Reeve, Dana, wrote about Robert Klein, who fights to make stem-cell research comes true. How should I know the wife of Superman writes something super? Sean Penn wrote about the patient and courageous Clint Eastwood (Sean Penn the crazy actor?). And the article on Michael Schumacher’s physical strength and highly intellectual personality was crafted by Nick Mason, Pink Floyd’s drummer. What is more confusing than a drummer writing about a Formula One racer?

All these people I found on the internet and magazines; is this true? Do these people write that well? I’m not talking writing as a career and I already feel like I’m at the bottom of the food chain.
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[1] You can find his book at QB bookstore. I read it there page to page. If you see only one left available, please leave it be. I’m thinking of buying it.

[2] Time 100 is Time Magazine's special issue in which short articles famous people were written by another famous people. Both the writer and the people whose story is being written are carefully selected by team of editors. On this edition I fell in love the most with two articles.

The first was an article about Burt Rutan, a spaceship maker who thinks that space travel should be for public and therefore built such ship. The article was done by James Lovell, the very astronaut who flew Apollo 13 of which character was played by Tom Hanks in the Ron Howard’s Apollo 13.

The second was the one about Robert Klei. Klei fought for the visibility of stem-cell research (physical therapy to make healing paralyzed people possible). He fought it side by side with the late Christopher Reeve. The article was written in full admiration and gratitude by Dana Reeve, Chris’ wife.

Are You Ready To Rumble, I’m Not

2005-04-22T18:33:00.000+07:00

Several days ago a friend of mine complained about having trouble working together with someone we both know. That very person complained the very same thing about him to me some days earlier (neither knew about my knowing both complaints). For either party, the complaints contain both offenses and defenses. Simply put, I had myself two completely different stories same conclusion: I’m right-he’s wrong. Though both are still working together, what is left is an absence of spirits and miles and distance. There are fewer fights of course—none, even, but it isn’t the way neither has in mind.

It was a pity their working relationship lasts shortly. I wish neither one gave up the fight that was only halfway. I wish they stop trying to be ‘friends’ and start finish the dream they started (the dream they shared me with piles of enthusiasm), even if it means two, three, four fights a day. I wish they both accept that they are nowhere ready to having a wise-fight; that they don’t listen to each other when they were head-to-head; and that they always need some time cooling themselves down to see that the other has a good point.

I wish they start to see that the fights are necessary. Not all fights are a matter of principal differences. Sometimes they were just about our stupid pride; about them not being able to handle the words ‘you’re wrong!’ when in fact they were! Most of the times those fights were only about them having different approaches and —as an added bonus— them not being able to comprehend why they came up with those approaches in the first place. That means they were saying, “I’m always right, you idiot.” And they said it all the time.

I looked back and found out that that was my big mouth talking. I was no different than my two friends. That was me I was talking about up there. I was just as stubborn, probably the most. I remembered the number of times I gave up working just because my partners couldn’t do his part well; at least that’s what I thought. At those times, I stopped talking, continued working and wishing that each day was the last of our partnerships. When they ended, I found no relief either. It always ended with us being not close anymore.

I wish there was someone wiser to slap our faces and open our ears.
I wish there will be anyone the next time.

Picture These Words, And Picture Them Good

2005-04-20T01:34:00.000+07:00

Six out of seven people whom I know read novels and watch the adaptation movies say that the movies aren’t as good as the novels. I always thought that notion is irrelevant. You cannot compare two completely different things to say that one is better than the other. The only similarity between books and movies is, in my opinion, that it is a way of telling stories. Come to think of it, everything from newspaper and internet content is a way of telling stories, but we don’t compare them arbitrarily.

I don’t know why people adapt books to movies, but I have some ideas (without any guarantee that even one being correct). One, if I were a moviemaker I would say, hey that’s one Oscar book. Two, if I were a movie producer I would say, hey that’s another book of US$ 500 millions blockbuster potential (1 billion if I were Jerry Bruckheimer). As a reader, I always think: I wonder in what and how many ways my interpretation and theirs are different.

And that is what I think of adapting books to movies: interpretation. We have not reached the civilization where a machine to change a novel into a screenplay is available. A screenplay writer has the burden to transform the story from a linguistic one to a pictorial one. As any product that is hand-crafted before they are one-button-pushed, interpretation takes time and costs them patience. It cost Peter Jackson and his team four years alone to rewrite Tolkien’s infamous Lord Of The Ring. Jackson allowed his teams to subjectively interpret the story, and have them discussed. The trilogy we saw was the objective version resulted from their months of grueling discussions. The rewriting process cost Jackson a lot of money (he has to pay every single team members), which probably explains why Jackson only wears weary t-shirts and a short during the filmmaking.

As these media speaks in different language (pictures vs. words), it is only appropriate to also compare them language wise. And since any language comprised of particular components, it is only fair to compare them accordingly. While an adaptation may strengthen the story’s picture, it may consequently lose its rich words. They say picture speaks a thousand words, but nobody says those are the same thousand the original photographer uses—or writer, in this case.

However, it is always interesting to comment any adaptation movies. In 1999 alone, my private list —a list I made specifically for this article— showed that at least 24 movies are originated from novels. From 1991 to 1996, I think Stephen King had at least one of his books adapted to movies to movies every other year, which unofficially makes him the Adopted King. Starting the same year, Michael Chrichton took over the title.

It is always understandable why people said these movies are disappointments. I don’t know how any special FX-men could manage to make King’s wild and scary imaginary demons haunted equally horrific onscreen. Even Industrial Light and Magic’s technology can only make break-dancing animatronics out of Chrichton’s dinosaurs, and that was what at the time we dubbed as ‘technologically advance.’ Some people complained that Spielberg failed to fully tell the story because he omitted 8 of 15 dinosaurs in the novel. I think these people should learn to see the difference between a failure and budgetary limitation (plus technological limitation). It took these movie magic companies only four years to be able not only to put writers’ imagination into frames, but also make them much more believable. One of the result was Chricton’s Sphere, but still people call it computer-party instead of a good story.

Drama movies, of which pure scientific contents are relatively absent, suffered the least adaptation critics (that means they still suffered to some extent). For the past seven years, my favorite novelist has been Nick Hornby. Hornby always manages to make comics out of painful and stupid life experiences without leaving the drama. And even in drama stories such as Hornby’s, movies interpretations may vary and dispersed from the original story, hence, moviegoers harsh critics. I experienced the same linguistic personality reading High Fidelity and About a Boy, but didn’t happened analogously with the movie versions. These are two good quality movies, but still people complained about them being wrongfully interpreted. I myself found it very funny how two stories from the same genre and written by the same person could end up differently: one as an indie movie, the other as a blockbuster. It took me five months after the release of About a Boy that the same personality wasn’t in the pictures, but in the music instead. I can almost picture Hornby personality as calm but lightly sarcastic from both music. A description later I found true reading 31 Songs (Hornby’s latest book) and his interviews in numerous websites). The rest of the differences are everyone’s personal saying on Hornby’s words (everyone from screenplay writer, director of photography, director, etc).

The most difficult interpretations are plays to movies. And Stephen King’s version of plays is Shakespeare. In seven years, I have seen three versions of Hamlet, three versions of Othello, two Romeo and Juliet, and one version of Great Expectation. I always thought interpreting Shakespeare into movies is a moviemaking career suicide of which only a few survived. I never have the guts to say whether they are good or bad since I have no qualification in understanding Shakespeare’s works. But I usually take the pleasure comparing their styles and efforts in interpreting his masterpieces. Among the above, I would say Great Expectation scored max. I have no idea that the same dialogues work with today’s setting. Kenneth Branaugh’s Hamlet is more consistent than Mel Gibson’s in all aspects. It isn’t fair to compare the two Romeo and Juliet because the first version was made sometime around 1970s, and the latter was 1990s. The 90s version is even more difficult to compare due to its Andy Warholic style and the marriage of Brooklyn-poetry. As a story the 70s version is good because it was loyal to the story, the 90s version did better because the pictures (angles, colors, etc) are as poetic as the dialogues themselves. It is possible that such poetic loyalty can only be established by a gay director (read: Baz Luhrman).

The most money making interpretations throughout the 2000s are comic adaptations. Throughout early 1980s to mid 1995 comic fans suffered severe trauma seeing their comic heroes turned into silverscreen jokes (such as Spiderman, Batman, Punisher, not to mention the worst of all, Master of the Universe). Even Superman survived the 1990s due to the hypnotic personality of Christopher Reeve and Gene Hackman (Luthor) ,and —fans will agree with me— no thanks the director, Richard Donner (though later famous with Lethal Weapons series). But in 1995, comic adaptation started its revolution when Tim Burton wrote and directed Batman (and continued with Batman Returns). Burton, a true fans of comic and comic illustrator himself, speaks the language of comics and movies equally. Batman is black, that’s his message (plus the fact of his personal love to the color black itself). This is the start of the successful comic adaptation: consistency between strips and frames.

Though Batman is pictured well, Bruce and Batman lacked personality. Batman’s personality may later be more deeply investigated in the upcoming Chris Nolan’s Batman Begins (another black color lover). Sam Raimi did well interpreting Spiderman’s and Peter Parker’s personalities, but failed to make a strong story, which was what the next evolution phase is all about. Stan Lee should have trusted other people to write without any possessive interference from him. The most successful interpretation would be X-Men (and X2). Singer aced what others failed: longitudinal character study. He managed to make the hidden obvious: That X-Men is a drama story, not action. A side which Stan Lee fought to make the writers and directors see, but failed. Later on these strategies matured and comic fans watch Hellboy, From Hell and even Constantine with full enjoyment. The magic is, no matter how shameful the movies are they never hit under US$ 200 million dollars of profit.

Whatever the original format was (books, play, comic), there will always be dispersion, but they don’t necessarily ruin the story. I think.

6683

2005-04-06T17:49:00.000+07:00

Some people believe that troubles are blessings in disguise. I’m trying very hard to believe that. I don’t think I have the capability to see mine as blessings, but I at least I see them as fun.

This morning, I had a lift halfway to campus, where I was supposed to attend a meeting. Right after I stepped out of the car, I realized that I left my wallet at his house and not the smallest change is in my pocket. I had no option but to walk the whole 15-minute-driving distance. Maybe because my 2-hour sleep went well (or 2-hour sleep means my brains hadn’t functioned fairly to judge), when I started walking, there wasn’t any slight of grump crossed my mind. There was, though, a significantly meaningful laughing-at-myself episode occurred in silent.

I started asking how far exactly this 15-minute driving was. As I have no tools to measure, I thought of my walking steps. So, counting I started. I counted outloud one-to-ten repeatedly. I marked every ten with my right hand, and every hundred with my left hand. At the first 300 I was counting with full attention, evaluating how effective the method was, I think I didn’t walk straight.

Leaving 300s, the counting went automatically. Thinking about other things and counting at the same time started to feel easy. Accidentally, I started evaluating the counting behavior itself —the philosophy, the meaning, the essence. It wasn’t a hard assessment and intrepetation came out in seconds: it was totally stupid. As feeling stupid is always hazardous to my pride, I started thinking of something else. Sometimes I glared at my shoes and felt guilty of how it started to look dusty. I started wondering if I would accept it, if one of the passing cars stopped and offered me a lift. Thoughts, nothing fabulous I tell you, criss-crossed my head faster than my counting —which by the way were around 1500s.

There was nothing wrong with my muscles. I walked with steady pace, steady breath. Next to muscle check was brain check. There was no self-blaming nor self-teasing for leaving the wallet. Firstly, I think the counting saved me. Secondly, many toughts regarding the counting behavior kept me more occupied more than I anticipated. Overall, I feel funny about the whole thing —obviously about the counting part. So in my head, there was: the counting, the thoughts, and the laugh. It was 8.30 and my brain was already that peculiarly overclocked. I could think of nothing that would make the whole thing gone more wrong.

That was 3970s. Suddenly a huge blue object blocked my way: a pedestrian crossing bridge! That was 36-climbing steps of pain. It felt as if every leg mucle contracted in such a way I only experienced when climbing a mountain. Even my arms and neck felt tighter. On that bridge something cold and wet dripping down my eyes all the way down the cheek. I wasn’t sure if it was tears or sweats. I tried to hush away the possibilty of such experience having the capacity to interfere with my emotional stabilty. But emotional stabilty was rocked when I in front of me was 36-step down —36 steps of equal pain as the climbing ones. Right then I realized whether you are going up or down, you are defying gravity and it costs you energy, which at the moment was something I would dearly save.

Down the bridge was about one-third distance away from final check-point. The image of campus loby quickly took over the pain. It was approximately 2000 steps, but the bridge pain was entirely gone already. As long as the image stayed clear, I would be in a happy state. However, SOMETHING up there is toying with me. Not far away, around 4100s, a motor bike was slowing down asking me a direction —a totally unnecessary additional event. Counting went fuzzy, lobby went hazy, happiness went blurry. After giving him direction, I stood in silence recollecting the last number on my lips and two hands. I counted on.

At that 4000-ish steps, I started seeing clearly where this walk would end. Wherever, it is somewhere I knew and anticipated, even planned. You knew that all you have to do is walk the rest of the path. Problems along the rest of the way was somehow trivia because every step means you were closer to the lobby —where you have to walk no more, where something more interesting awaits. At those 4000-ish step I felt funnily like living, like being 40-ish —around how old I want to be as I always tell people: 42 to be exact. I guess that is why people say life begins at 40: because they begin to see what the journey is worth.

The last 2000 steps felt faster, a lot faster than the first 2000 (compared especially to the 3970th).
It was over an hour of a grand total 6683 steps[1] to campus lobby.
It was 9.30 in the morning, the day was 14.5 hours left.
I sweat, but wasn’t even tired.

PS:
I was half hour late to the meeting (not that it was important)
---

[1] Does that mean I'll die age 67?

They Exhibit The Process, Not The Artists

2005-03-31T20:45:00.000+07:00

I went to see an exhibition last Sunday: Tribe Art Comission/Julian Opie/Jakarta. This is probably one of very few exhibitions held in town with such strong concept that every item displayed bear consistent message. Only the works of five people were displayed, work of which to stare at, marvel at, and dig for hours. The longer I stared, the more disturbed I was. Bono said once what you don’t know you can feel somehow. Mr.Know-It-All as I am —very not in a good way—, I stayed staring and hoped something is there. Aha experience then hit hard.

Hannes Schmid’s Room
(of whom I know nothing of)
In that room were played four short movies —hyper short in fact (only seconds), each in repeat mode. First movie: long shot of a guy standing firm, slowly steadily lifting up his left leg and lowering it down again. Second movie: close up of a guy staring at us still, his hair was wind-blown in sudden. Third movie: close up of guy, eyes closed, before his face was water pouring down. Fourth movie: A swimming pool with a F1 racing car completely drowned in, a guy swims by. I think every model is F1 drivers.

Each movie is looping over and over but there was no way I could find the break. That means the maker are in control of the first guy leg motion, the second guy’s hair, —here’s the scarriest part— the third and fourth movie’s water. How on earth can someone control nature? I stared for hours looking for a end-start frame and tried figuring out how they made them possible. I did it in vain. But something else came out. I think I figured out the meaning of each movies. F1 pushes drivers to endure same lap over and over and over again, which explains why the movies were set in repetitions. The leg guy represents strength, the hair guy represents speed, the eyes-closed guy represents durable concentration, and fourth pool water represents constancy![1]

Alastair Gibson’s Room
(of whom I know nothing of)
In this room only two items were displayed: Two perfect small scale shark sculptures made out of leftover machine parts of F1 cars. The details are insane. I wish I went there with competent mechanic so I would know the names of the part Gibson used for the sharks’ anatomy —the eyes, the fins, the skin, the tails, the bones, the lungs, the teeth, the every parts attached. I think the two masterpieces represents problem solving. Even when things go wrong —which are unacceptable—, everything, including leftovers, are set to make the best.

Phillip Albera’s Room
(of whom I know nothing of)
His was a 9-audience theather playing a documentary about the work in pitstop, entitled Pitshop. The exhibited version is sadly a tightly re-edited version of the original. Still, it conveyed a strong message about F1 pitstop. It explicitly depicted the hear-beat pace of the crew tweaking the cars, but speed is not what the movie is all about. In the interview, one of the driver said that when he docked, he is the one responsible for making all the crews work comfortably. That was one big surprise considering I always thought it was the other way around. I even thought that the driver-crew relationship goes vertically. Such documentary with strong and shocking truth about ‘The Pit’ deserves the award Albera won.

Julian Opie
(of whom I’ve saluted since 1997)
The most advertised room of the event. Out of the people whose works are exhibited, Julian Opie is the only one I am familiar with. His artistic style put both generic and specific elements in balanced. His drawing is highly concise. He draws line as needed —no more no less— as a wise man speaks as required with most clarity. With strong lines and blocked colors, audience can identify what or who he drew in precise. He broke people’s mindset of association between details-neurotic and generic-minimalist (visit http://www.julianopie.com/).

But to my surprise, I put my highest regard not to Opie, but the F1 people who hired Opie in the first place. I think they knew exactly Opie, extremely observant as he is, as their number one choice. I read several interviews (sometime, somewhere) where F1 drivers confessed that when high-speeding, everything became so focused and clear. And Opie has the exact style[2]. Of course my suspiscion may later on be proven wrong.

PS:

I wish I knew how to upload a picture for my blog, so you can see what I mean.
I wish I knew more about F1, so I would tell you names instead of this guy, that guy, the driver.
Too bad the organizing committee didn’t provide required guides, otherwise I wouldn’t have to spend hours staring looking stupid. And to make the exhibition is everything about Opie is, I think, missed the whole point of the message. The show was metaphorically the F1 being a well systemized orchestration of expertises and commitment, not about exhibiting works.
Speaking of exhibition, I don’t agree that it was an exhibition in the first place. It was a temporary museum. If only those people knew how valuable what they showed off.

[1] That made Heraklitos’ remark (Panta rei – never will the same current streams twice) obselete, huh?

[2] When Blur released The Best Of Blur and had the cover designed by Opie, I smelled fishes in the air. Knowing Damon Albarn not being a popularity freak as the Galagher Brothers are, I know there is something more to it about the cover. Later on I found out the concept of the that ‘best album’. The best that can come out from blur-ness is clarity (focus). That is something only Julian Opie can put to paper perfectly.

Visual Experience On Audio Presentation

2005-03-03T22:27:00.000+07:00

A week ago I went to see a chamber music performance. It occurred to me that the last time I attended similar event was three years ago. I didn’t jump up and down three years ago and I didn’t either last week. But a friend wanted me there, so there I went.

Doy[1] once wrote a paper about how we experience music from live performance richer than recording ones. I think one of the reason is that recording microphones —the mechanic ears— are nowhere as good as our human ears. That explains why Leg, who’s always dying to see live shows of his idols, always played his CD player up to a volume level we fear. Even so Leg still complains that that doesn’t even come close to the real thing —a notion Doy always agreed with.

Generally, I would have agreed with Doy and Leg, but it’s a different case with classic. Most of the time, I would have been much happier listening to the recording versions. Maybe it’s because though they are labeled recording versions, they are recorded live. As looks can be deceiving, a stage full of performers always tricked my head thinking all the sounds came from the front, not surround as the they really did. To counter-trick it, I usually close my eyes. But that kind of kill the whole idea of going to a live show, doesn’t it?

On this occasion, I tried something different. I kept my eyes open and straight upfront. As I did so, I couldn’t help seeing the stage only partially. Always only at one person at a time and at one instrument at a time. A funny thing happened. As my attention is fixated on one particular visual object, it was as if the sound that object created got significantly louder than the others. It became the figure, and the rest are background. As I kept shifting my visual focus, the auditory focus changed, too. Then I tip-toe from one object to the next and got myself a very playful volume-game. I laughed carefully making sure no one around me saw me. People may think I was lost my sense of reality.

Maybe it’s because practise makes perfect, I began to able to see more than one player at a time. After several minutes I was able to focus on the whole stage. When I did, something amazing happened (by amazing, I think I meant for me only). The body movements of the conductor and the sound all the players produced are somehow familiar to me. I knew I’ve seen it before many times, but I couldn’t tell where-when. About two minutes I think I looked at them hard trying to dig into my memory bank. Not long later, the search was over. I found what I was looking for.

Since I don’t know when I always question why conductors don’t make hand gestures that completely correspond to the sound of the music. It struck me hard that that was the same question bugging me when I watched Fantasia 2000[2]. In Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, I always found one object moving without obeying one particular sound (or instrument). It kept jumping from one instrument to another. Being sensitive to visual stimuli, that deviant object is disturbing me crazy. It was an itch you can no way scratch. It was harassing my intelligence. That was when I realized that the bug was the conductor. It moved exactly the way a conductor would! The rest of the pictures (the rest of the water, the rest of the clouds, the rest of the paper butterflies, etc) move accordingly to precisely one sound. As a whole, Fantasia (both Fantasia and Fantasia 2000) did speak sounds in visual language. This time my little laughter was no longer little. I think I made enough sound for people to notice me. The dim light of the room saved social dignity.

In Fantasia, each segment (one segment = one composition) has stories. Now that (!) is what I missed listening to orchestrated music. That means another adventure awaits.

[1] I wrote enough about my friend Doy that I think I needn’t inserted any introduction in this letter.
[2] Fantasia 2000 is a Disney’s feature presentation of visual interpretation of several repertoire of classical musical, among them are Beethoven and Respighi.

Two Awes In Two Days.

2005-02-22T02:09:00.000+07:00

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been using computer more than anything. I’ve gone through software changes, all the way from primordial to medieval to modern and to whatever comes next. Even when I played digger, or wrote using wordstar I’ve marveled them for every performance they displayed. When graphic interface started to show themselves (apple and windows operating system), I can already imagine the things I can do and make with them. Ideas started streaming so fast that I started to loose balance and needed to sit down. That, I remembered, was at an computer exhibition[1].

Not a single day when I used my pc, or any pc for that matter, that I don’t wonder how these gadgets work. Never at each time those letters appear acurately on the screen while typing, that my head —simultaneously writing— says ‘coool’. In 1994, when I made acquaintance to Adobe Photoshop and a scanner, all hell broke loose. I spent days of obsessive test-drives. I scanned almost every cool picture I've collected and gave them a touch of magic —well, many many many touches of magic. It was an awe: turning a full-color picture to greyscale, changing red to blue, blending texture onto a picture. All in a single click. I haven’t the smallest, slightest, tiniest idea how that white box did the things I wanted it to. I wanted to know how, but I know no one with adequate knowledge.

When last month Ric offered me application form of java programming short course, it was impossible (sin even) to say no. To think that at the end of the course I will be able to build a software is probably equal to thinking that in the year 2000 we’ll have flying cars. But even if I would only be fed with the smallest, slightest, tiniest idea missed all these years, 'yes' is all I would say. And a blast is what I had with the class.

We type, we speak
I’ve always been told that computer is your slave. It makes total sense considering the screen says bad command when you mistype something. Only after the first one-and-a-half hour I realized that I hate the idea of calling them slave. It is appropriate to say I was making order when what I do is move my mouse and have it do exactly as I please and need. It felt like me being a kid pointing my mom a food and she’d get some for me. But when I say pass me that cookie, it’s a completely different case. I speak to mom, not order mom. I felt the same thing when writing down those scripts[2] the instructors handed me . I was speaking to a machine (they did call java, visual basic, etc languages!). I felt like a nice person (which doesn’t happen often) and I liked it.

The second day it hit me that all this time I use this pc there is an interpreter helping me passing on my messages. The mouse I move and keys I hit were interpreted by the software (which speaks in its own language) to a machine (which speaks —without any surprise—, a machine language). These softwares turned out to be some smart interpreters with only one mission, to avoid me wasting time writing sentences to get what I want. Though every time I hear myself saying this I sound more and more making point of them being slaves, I thought of them more and more as not. If men consider dogs —one of the most obedient animals— friends, what makes a pc can’t be one? I know I can’t (yet?) make even the simplest software, but by considering these machines as friends, I think I’ve put myself in the right gratitude attitude toward the makers.

We speak, we babble
The first day in class I thought I was the stupidest. I can’t make out anything the instructor was saying. Finding out I wasn’t alone, I put my blame on them[3]. The only words I understood were this and that, which millions miles from sufficient to the lowest understanding. The only explanation I somehow managed to understand the materials was because every time instructors said this-this-this-and-this I dedicated full power of attention at the scribbling they pointed on the class whiteboard and started to look for any connection among them. A series of attempts which ended with satisfaction, I might add. The harder the connection to look for, the greater happiness came when I broke them down.

That thought brought another one. It is hard to believe that these people I admire explain the materials poorly. They spoke without any knowledge of how below basic I were at computer languages. When they realized my borderline status, they tried to tutor me one-to-one. At that, too, they failed. Right there, right then, I realized how poor we are at explaining things. It was horror to think that all this time the reason we, people in general, understand one another were because enough background knowledge we know about them and faces-gestures-intonation we make, not because we speak in crystal clear.

In that class, it was magical —in a great way— when my computer pointed my errors. In its fashion it said: here is where you make mistake (I swear at this pause I heard it said dear). I will patiently wait untill you make the correct sentence, then I will pass it on. It was magical also —in a way I can’t decide good or bad— when we to a human fellow: I can’t understand any word you’re saying, but I understand you anyway, so let’s forget the whole messy-sentence thingy. In just two days I found out how a machine we created utilizes language, the very thing that makes human a human, better than we do.
---

[1] I can’t believe I remember (and moreover writing) this. I must have been the only living species passing out in public after five minutes of computer demo.

[2] script is a downgrading choice of word to replace sentences

[3] This happens in full guilt for all the instructors are my friends. It is just so happened that they’re program literate.

On Feb 14

2005-02-14T00:01:00.000+07:00

This dialogue is excerpted from Mirror Has To Faces. It is the scene of Rose Morgan (Barbra Sreissand) teaching her class.

Morgan:
This is the scene from my sister’s wedding. There she is getting drunk regretting she ever get married —for the third time, mind you. My mother is so jealous she’s sprouting snakes from her hair. And I’m thinking:

This is perfect.
We have three feminine archetypes here,
The Divine Whone —excuse me,
Medusa,
and Me.

Who am I, what archetype? Trevor?

Trevor:
A Virgin Mary?

(class laughs)

Morgan:
Thanks a lot, Trevor. Nooo, The Faithful Handmaiden. Always the bride’s maid, never the bride. It does proove, however, what Jung said all along that myths and archetypes are alive, and well, living in my apartement.

(class laughs)

(continued) ….As I stood at the altar beside my sister and her husband-to-be, it struck me that this ritual called a wedding ceremony is really just a final scene of a fairy tale. They never tell what happens after. They never tell you that Cinderella drove the Prince crazy with her obsessive need to clean the castle…. cause she missed her day job, right? No, they don’t tell us what happen after because there is no after. The be-all and the end-all of romantic love was…. Mike?

Mike:
Uhhh, sex?

(class laughs)

Morgan:
Mike, Mike, Sex…. On the brain, Mike…

(another student raised hand)

Morgan:
Yes?

Student:
Marriage…

Morgan:
That’s right. But it wasn’t always like that. Around the 12th century there was a notion known as courtly love —where a love has nothing to do with marriage and nothing to do with sex. In most cases it was defined as a passionate relationship between a knight and a lady of the court who was already married and so they could never consumate their love. In this way they would have to rise above your ordinary, you know, going-to-the-bathroom-in-front-of-each-other kind of love

(class laughs)

(continued) …and they would go after something more divine. They took sex out of the equation and what was left was the union of souls.

Now think of this. Sex was always the fatal love potion. Look at the literature of the time: Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristan and Isolde. All consumation could lead to was madness, despair, or death. Clinical experts, scholars, and my aunt Esther…

(class laughs)

(continued) …. are united to believe that true love has spiritual dimention while romantic love was nothing but a lie, an illusion, a modern myth —a soulless manipulation. And speaking of manipulation…. it’s like going to the movies and we see the lovers on the screen kiss and the music swells…. and we buy it, right? So when my date takes me home and kisses me good night and if I don’t hear The Philharmonic in my head, I’d dump him.

(class laughs)

(continued) Now, the question is: why do we buy it? We buy it because whether it’s myth or a manipulation, let’s face it, we all want to fall in love, right? Why? Because that experience makes us feel completely alive —where every sense is heightened, every emotion is magnified, and our every day reality is shattered, and we are flung into the heavens. It may only last a moment, an hour, an afternoon, but that doesn’t dimish its value because we’re left with memories that we treasure for the rest of our lives.

I read an article a while ago that said when we fall in love we hear Puccini in our heads. I love that. I think it’s because this music fully expresses our longing for passion in our lives, and romantic love. So while we’re listening to La Boheme or Turandot, or reading Wuthering Heights, or watching Casablanca, a little bit of that love lives in us, too.

So, the final question is: why do people want to fall in love —when they can have such a short-shelves life and be devastatingly painful. What do you think? Stacy?

Stacy:
It leads to propagation of the species?

Morgan:
Uh huh.
Ray?

Ray:
Because psychologically we need to connect with somebody.

Morgan:
Could be.
Jill?

Jill:
Because we are culturally preconditioned?

Morgan:
Good answers, but much too intellectual for me

(class laughs).

(continued) I think it’s because, as some of you already may know,
while it does last, it feels fucking great!

----
PS:
If you celebrate the day, may you have it great!

To Dine Or Not To Dine

2005-02-07T09:40:00.000+07:00

For about two days my dad has been asking me and my sister to recommend a place to eat out. I didn’t give him much attention. I asked him what for, he was mumbling something long. I thought he was asking for a place to treat his guests. I’m not one of the people who eats for pleasure, who hunts food at every corner in the city, so I told him he asked the wrong person (though I’m sure my dad knows this). I didn’t give him any answer.

By the time I was clued in, it was already D-day —my sister’s birthday. I remember the occasion, but didn’t get that he was going to take us out for dinner. I didn’t feel like going. I wasn’t tired nor busy. Actually I felt like going out tonight, but not birthday dinner out in some restaurant. My family were never this type. On a special occasion we usually stay home, cook ourselves, eat and crack jokes the rest of the night.

Maybe he wanted our family to be like other families. Maybe his friends do these things, I know my friends’ do. Maybe he got the idea that his sons and daughter would somehow feel normal if we do what other families do. Unfortunately, I don’t find that idea appealing. I don’t want to eat out with my family at a restaurant. That would take away the warmth, which is the whole idea of a family dinner in the first place. Some waitresses will attend us, not my sister handing us the ketchup or my mom scooping some foods into our plates. My dad wouldn’t tell me to get him some water, which strangely I enjoy during family dinner. We wouldn’t be able to tell stories and call one another names because doing it loudly would bother people and doing it in whisper would kill all the fun.

I decided to save the night. I offered them dinner at home, instead. It doesn’t matter what we eat, we can have something delivered. That way we can have restaurant meal but keep the blast of each others’ companion. That turned out to be an idiotic idea. That idea offended my dad and I found it out too late. He was so looking out for the dinner. He even had my sister to take Rai, whom she has being seing for four years but we still know nothing of.

That was a good lure. My dad and I always have this idea that one day we will make him sit with us and give him hell just for fun. And this dinner, where his presence my dad well-planned, sounds like all-you-can-eat of both foods and pranks (it’s just wouldn’t be Rai’s night, that night). I agreed to go.

As I waited the coming hour, I read a book. That damn book was lousy, I fell asleep. I woke up and found my family left without me. I think they went thinking I was still not in the mood for the offer. Seeing me asleep, the skip the the idea of bugging me. That’s what I think they thought, bugging me. Now I feel guilty. By the time they got back, I went into my room. I really didn’t have the right word to straight things out. I can’t believe what an asshole I must have been to my sister.

History Of (Taste Of) Music

2005-02-02T15:52:00.000+07:00

This is what listening to ipod 10 hours straight in shuffle mode made you think.

Meet Indiana Jones
There were years when music is something my parents fed me. Before elementary school, I co-listened to what they listened, that means I listened behind their backs (which explains the source of thievery expertise). They listened to the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s and, thank God, lots of classicals. Back when there was only one TV station, my parents used to sit me down watching its classical music program. They had them on tapes so I can watch repeatedly, which I always did. It’s most of the 50’s and 60’s that are killing me.

Elementary school is probably the wildest years of my musical exploration. I was the Indiana Jones of musical search adventure, the one who looked for the Holy Grail of music. I was the Star Trek Final Fontier, I boldly went to where no man (my age) has gone before. I was so alone and dedicated, I deserved an award. It started when a friend of mine, Nar, introduced me to The Beatles, a musical icon which somehow my parents forgot to mention. My first Beatles exposure was, Roll Over Beethoven. Nar told me Roll Over Beethoven was a song saying, “Prepare to extinct, Grandpa Beethoven. The next generation is here to stay.” Instantly brainwashed, I started Beatle-hunt intensively. In only two-month period I had all their albums, listened to every single song, memorized every lyrics, watched every Beatles movie. If there was a profession called The Beatles Historian, I would have made quite a fortune. I knew every birthday, discography, lyrics interpretation and biography.

Not long after that, the expansion began. I was omnivorous; Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, Genesis, Level 42, Culture Club, Depeche Mode, Metallica, Kenny Loggins, Billy Joel, Noel, Human League, Toto Coelo, U2, Louis Armstrong, The Doors and on and on and on. In 1988, Level 42 had their concert held in Jakarta, an event I definitely didn’t want to miss. This wasn’t a drug-abuse-blood-drinking band so there was no way my dad would say no. He did. He said, “It’s dangerous, there will be crowds, plus you’re a shorty, son.” Though his argument hit the jackpot, I still couldn’t believe his choice of words. That was my first musical disappointment.

Hide And Seek
Junior high, the scandalous years. The years of adolescence —the life stage when social acceptance is more important than food, clothing and housing. To be one of the hood, I had to listen to what the hood listened to. And my hood listened to head-banging music. For them, there was only two music: metal and disco (in 80’s disco raged even nastier than in 70’s). You are either in or out. If you listened to metal you are man, if not you are a sissy.

Since brotherhood —pseudo as it was— was important to me, I adopted their music. There was new nuance in my library shelf. It was filled with anything which names are related to death or satan: Necrodeath, Suicidal Tendencies, Morbid Angel, Death Angel, Megadeth, Overkill, Nuclear Assault, Sepultura. I couldn’t risk my ‘brothers’ caught my other collection so I had them in a secret compartment. I had to listen to these hidden collection in whisper mode, around 2 to 3 volume level. It was like having an affair. If, God forbids, I got caught, they would ridicule or shame me (if I were unlucky I'd get both). With almost six years of feeling Indiana Jones, I lived this next three years difficultly. This was my musical version of Living The Years Dangerously.

Regaining Consciousness
In high school sanity hit my head back and I developed my own identity. Screw brotherhood. No one has the right to dictate my taste of music. I started being honest about my junior high school music. These metal nonsense, I hated most of them. One day I threw away these collection and replaced them with the hybernated ones, the secret ones, my true loves. Some of the metal collection actually stood their ground and remained on that shelf —the good ones: Megadeth, Suicidal Tendencies, Metallica, and a few more.

This is the stage when I was fully conscious about my taste. I put every song on my surgeon table. I learned who produced the records, who designed the covers, etc. I espescially learned messages behind lyrics. I had this sick belief that people are always hiding behind lyrics and if I am Sherlock enough I would break down the secrets. Most of the time I was right. This was the highlight of my musical experience. I found out that Sting wrote Why Should I Cry For You for his dead Father. They were never close but still Sting loved him. He wrote, “I’ll love you with my fashion.” I found out that Beatles’ last albums were produced and recorded with deep sadness for they know they were about to part. After a long fight, John and Paul actually became closer than ever. He shed sad tears when he wrote Here Today for John. I did this to every song I knew. These songs are more alive when treated not as songs, but stories (and histories) instead.

I learned many things about music itself more than ever. I tracked down almost every musician I listened to. I looked for changes, development. I saluted some musicians. I saluted Red Hot Chilli Peppers and Bjork, for some. I suspected they were each a category of their own, not a band. I admire U2’s persistence. I stacked books, and live concert laser discs. I was so much of a history hunter, I stopped playing music.

College Years And On
Here I found four prodigies: Leg, Doy, Bud, and Ten. I think I master only one-tenth their knowledge. Funny, I actually learned more about past music more than present ones. I realized there were hundreds of musicians I missed throughout 80’s some that survived through the 90’s. If I were The Beatles Historian, Bud was Peter Gabriel’s. Leg lectured me one whole night about Pink Flloyd and The Who and poisoned me to watch The Wall and Tommy. Music became a whole new world to explore.

Strangely, this is the most relaxing music period for me. Doy taught me to sense music physically first to feel its depth and warmth. Nde taught me to enjoy them spiritually. Leg taught me the wonderous of pumping the volume. Bud taught me history of music industries and managements. These people taught me to take my time and that greedy means hasty (and that is bad news).

.
.
PS:

Nar disappeared after elementary school. I looked for him for years, no one seemed to be able to locate him, not even Friendster.
In 2002, there was a rumour that Level 42 would play a gig in Jakarta again the second time. The show was cancelled because the band finally splitted.
I deleted anything related to Dave Matthews Band, otherwise this would be a very long long article.

I agree with MTV about the 80's. They're nothing but wrong costumes, bad hair, silly dancing, and great music.

Friends Near Perfect

2005-02-01T17:24:00.000+07:00

The Beginning Of A Beautiful Friendship
In many books and movies I oftentimes come across stories where two people became best friends. Sometimes they clicked in a heartbeat, right after a conversation which have them discovered that they have same interests, traits, etc. Others started being enemies, sworn ones, even. Later on they found that they share a same enemy. As nature stated the law —the enemy of my enemy is my friend—, the two conspired. What first started as conspiracy grew to a brotherhood. Either way, they were inseperable ever since. If these stories were a fairy tales, and characters were a boy and a girl, the storyteller would say and they lived happily ever after.

I’m not sure I had the priviledge of having such a friend. I had been both in the heartbeat-click and mortal-enemies-first, but ‘inseperable’ never happens. I’m almost certain it is a myth, maybe even a hoax. After several years of having a new friend, I seem to be more occupied with new new friend, and less with old new friend. The pattern seems mutual. There used to be a small dot of guilt, but if such eternal friendship really is a myth, then I’ll be over the guilt shortly.

I’m not saying I don’t have any friends. I have some. Matter of fact, I have some disturbingly strange ones. Leg once kissed and hugged his beloved pc monitor hoping it would get magically fixed. Ndra kicked his pc to fix it, which worked every time. Don used to move a fan (which didn’t belong to him) room to room to cool only his leg. He never put it back and always successfully made the owner upset. Doy, color-blind, once decided to pursue a career in graphic design —a decision that threatened Leg and me. One day at three in the morning, Ndra, Doy, and I rush-drove Leg to a hospital for head injury he got from his Indiana Jones-jump-imitation-act (that was caffein kicking). If that’s not enough, meet Ten, sleeptalk literally every night. When he sleeptalks, he can accurately answer any philosophical theories you ask. Strange as they may be, these are cool people[1]. And they are great friends.

Ready Buddies
But these people are not exactly Circle K. As impossible as this sounds, wouldn’t it be great to have your own 24/7-ready-buddy? No one is such a thing, but something is such a thing. Actually, some things are such things.

When in high school I had this pencil I used for drawing. With it I made some amount of money. We rocked! Being my money machine, that pencil and I developed some sort of attachment (and I said this without pride). Some time around February 99 –which means we were ‘together’ for approximately seven years— I lost it. I asked around every single person at my campus. My fear must have been contagious because some of them started asking other people around for my pencil, too. Two weeks later someone called me and said she found it. I got it back…. and lost it again about a month later. That was the last of me and my pencil.

My moral point is that eternal relationship may have its chance. It’s just not in the way we originally thought. Some things are your potential-loyal friend. For male human species specifically, you can either choose a dog or and electronic gadget. I know my pick. I have my laptop —my precious, my friends called.

Since the first day of ‘my precious’, things have been great. I work more and faster, I write more and faster. Believe it or not, I even watch more movies, read more books. A month later, this little club has a new member, a-40-gig ipod. Whatever I do with ‘my precious’ my ipod tags along (I haven’t named my ipod, in case you ask). We are (excuse me, but I have to say this) inseperable.

The Absence Of My Buddy
A month ago my sister woke me up and said my laptop went blank on her. I restarted. Nothing happened. I panicked. I called hotline service and told them I’d be there in twenty minutes, and “Be prepared!” This was emergency. Panic, In the car talked more than any husband driving her pregnant wife to a hospital. The tech officers quick-dealt, but misfixed it, which disappointed me. I didn't say much, but I think my face spoke of how much ‘precious’ means to me clearlier because on my second comeback, they fixed it dedicatedly. They even gave me a ten-minute phone call to explain current situation. It’s almost as if they said, “Don’t worry, sir. Your wife is going to be just fine.” It stayed in its hospital for three weeks. I made visit three times.

The three weeks ‘my precious’ was absent I lost the fun of my routines. It felt different writing without it. I had almost seven pieces of articles, but finished none. A week ago, ‘precious’ came back alive and kicking. This is our first article.

[1] Either that is true or I’m just saying to save my ass in case they read this.

Homo Cypherus

2004-12-25T01:08:00.000+07:00

In four-seasoned countries some animals starts stockipiling foods before winter comes. Before holiday comes, I stockpile books (some fictions, some nonfictions) and movies. Because I can’t decide what books to read and what movies to watch, for two days I’ve been watching a complete season tv series and tip-toe-reading three books, all at the same time. Through several episodes, one the book began to draw my attention: The Code Book. It’s about evolution of secret messages and history on how we use them. I began to leave the two other books, of course temporarily.

Some great stories are written there. It is said that the oldest story of secret messages ever accounted was the one told by Herodotus, the father of history himself (my idol, among many). Demaratus —exiled but stayed loyal to Greek— sent encrypted messages to his homeland to warn that the Persians are planning an attack. Through these secret means of communication, the Greek bought enough time to gain strength. On D-Day, not only they put up decent fights, they too managed to win the war.

Around 1850, Mary Queen of Scots, while being imprisoned in a dungeon, managed to send and receive coded messages regarding her salvation. All those time, the messages were unfortunately intercepted and figured out without her noticing. The Queen of England charged her and her followers with treason stageplot and have them beheaded. Tough luck.

Around 30 years after, usage of secret messages became popular. Young couples in love, but no parental blessing, at last found a way to say the L word, and of course, whole lot more. They had their messages printed on the personal columns of newspapers —soon to be called agony column. One day, Sir Charles Wheatstone, the father of the code, found an ‘agony message’ from a young man asking his lover to elope. Feeling sympathetic, Wheatstone put a message on the same column advising the couple to turn back on their plan. That he did with the very same code.

Through ages there has been great battles between codemakers and codebreakers. Through this ongoing battle the codes evolves, from the piece-of-cake level to the whole-cake level. It has taken numerous linguists and mathmeticians to both making and breaking. Rumor has it that some indecypherable codes are actually broken already. It’s just that it would be advantageous for certain secret government organizations to keep the impression that these codes stays tough, so that enemies may still use it.

The making and the breaking is actually the best part. I looked up at my movies catalog and realized that most of the titles I put five-stars on are actually ones involving conspiracies. Conspiracy goes along with espionage, and espionage goes along with secret codes. Both in movies and novels, my favorite moments are when the main character decyphered such codes: when the multimillion scientist John Hammond broke the dinosaurs DNA code in Jurassic Park, when John Nash broke the assignment code from FBI in A Beautiful Mind, when in Stargate Professor Daniel Jackson found out that the Egyptian hieroglyph scrolls handed to him wasn’t talking about door to heaven but gate of interplanetary travels instead, when Ben Gates succeded to locate the mythical treasure from codes hidden in american dollar bills in National Treasure, when in Da Vinci Code Robert Langdon talked on and on about Mary Magdalene’s “true” identity from clues left by the great Leonardo da Vinci through his "Last Supper" masterpiece. These are the most thrilling moments of all stories.

Some hidden messages are actually meant to be found. I’m almost certain that these storywriters intentionally hide clues so that when we, the audience, found them, we’ll love the show even more. If this is the case, I would be the first in line to congratulate and thank them. Among all these people, I think the Larry and Andy Wachowski are on top of my list.

Alfred Gough and Miles Millar, number two on my list, put so many hidden signs in their Smallville TV series. These signs are specifically designed to keep things consistent with the previous Superman movies (ones which the Superman character is played by Christopher Reeves). Some of these signs aren't necessary in the form of symbols. Notice that though not yet wear his super costume, teenage Clark Kent constantly clothed in red and blue. When he turned evil, as happenned on some episodes, he wore black, as also the three Kryptonian villain in Superman 2 (General Zoth, Non and Ursa). Smallville concentrates on Clark Kent finding his true Kryptonian identity. As episodes went by, he began to come across some Krytonian written language. A particular symbol refers to he himself. The symbol, without coincidences, is infinity symbol flipped 90 degrees. The symbol describes the power Superman bears, which is infinite and limitless. As told in comics, young Clark Kent is Smallville’s famous quarterback. So is he in Smallville. What is never before exposed, in his team he bears the number 8: again, infinity symbol flipped 90 degrees.

From history, science to entertainment, it’s wonderous how secrets and hidden meaning make things interesting.

PS:
Notice how similar Christ and Cross sound (Christ-mas, cross-mas). Furthermore, the symbol of Cross is “X”. Hence, X’mas. To you who celebrate, may you have a happy one.

Patience, Consistencies, (and maybe) No Lies

2004-12-21T01:39:00.000+07:00

Some Patience…
Sekitar tahun 2000 Hewlett-Packard sepertinya mentargetnya penjualan Pocket PC setinggi penjualan telepon selular (HP tidak produksi telepon selular, sampai tahun 2004). Untuk itu HP memutuskan untuk menyampaikan pesan yang sangat klise pada publik: semua produk HP adalah untuk semua orang dan HP bisa melakukan semuanya. Masalah mereka adalah, cara baru apa yang harus mereka gunakan. Inilah yang sepertinya mereka lakukan selama kurang lebih tiga tahun tahun.

Tahun pertama: HP mengeluarkan sejumlah iklan dengan tema yang sama. Dalam satu halaman penuh mereka memamerkan produk teknologi hasil dukungan HP: satelit, gedung pencakar langit, sistem komunikasi awak Formula 1, dan lain-lain (bukan komputer , printer, PDA). Tagline yang mereka gunakan pun sebetulnya terkesan sangat sombong:

[picture of one technology] + hp = possible

Tahun kedua: HP sedikit memodifikasi tema iklannya. Yang mereka ekspos adalah penggunanya: orang-orang terkenal (bukan fiktif) dari berbagai profesi yang dianggap sebagai icon di bidang masing-masing (para CEO perusahaan international, olahragawan, ilmuwan, dokter, dan lain-lain). Mereka masih memakai tagline yang sama.

[picture of one famous people] + hp = possible

Tahun ketiga: Ini adalah tahun yang mengejutkan sayah. Tidak lagi menggunakan model terkenal, HP malah mengekspos satu orang yang tidak berbeda dengan sayah, kita, dll, menggunakan produk HP (komputer, printer, PDA, dll). Tiba-tiba tagline yang sama lagi tidak lagi sesombong dua tahun sebelumnya:

[you] + hp = possible

Masih di tahun yang sama, iklan demi iklan, ‘you’ (common people) dalam tiap iklan HP tidak hanya satu orang, tapi beberapa. Bulan demi bulan jumlah common people dalam tiap iklan makin bertambah: dua, lima, sepuluh, puluhan, dan seterusnya. Antara tiap orang terdapat garis yang menunjukkan satu orang berhubungan dengan orang yang lain. Sampai suatu hari, HP menerbitkan satu iklannya yang sangat sangat penuh dengan orang. HP masih menggunakan tagline yang sama.

[you] + hp = possible

Tiga tahun hanya untuk menyampaikan produk HP adalah untujk semua orang.
Some patience…

Some Consistencies…
Ayah sayah sering bilang semua iklan bohong. Mungkin beliau benar. Paling tidak di Asia, lebih dari tujuh puluh persen penduduk belum menikmati teknologi digital. Mungkin HP bohong, teknologi HP bukan untuk semua orang, paling tidak di Asia. Dua bulan yang lalu, sayah menemukan beberapa artikel yang membuat sayah berpikir: mungkin ayah sayah salah.

Beberapa tahun lalu, HP membentuk divisi baru: emerging-market solution, sebuah divisi yang bertugas membentuk konsumen baru (bukan menambah konsumen dengan merebut konsumen saingannya). Di India, karena (mungkin) melihat angka tujuh puluh persen tersebut, HP menunjuk Anand Tawker sebagai kepala divisi. Solusi yang didesain Anand sangat brilian.

Tahun 2004 pertanian India merosot drastis. Petani-petani terbelit hutang, bahkan sejak bulan Mei tercatat 60 orang petani bunuh diri dengan meminum pestisida dalam dosis tinggi.

Anand mendesain kampanye bagaimana HP dapat membantu keluarga-keluarga ini. HP menyewakan produk-produk digital (kamera, printer, tas, solar battery charger, dll) dengan harga relatif murah. Kamera digital terbaru HP disewakan dengan harga $9 per bulan. Kamera-kamera digital ini digunakan para ibu rumah tangga di India untuk menjadi juru potret turis: 70 sen per foto. Seaneh-anehnya (apa iya turis-turis sekarang tidak punya digital kamera), program ini menaikkan pendapatan keluarga 2 – 6 kali lipat.

Mungkin HP tidak akan berhasil mengejar tujuh puluh persen tersebut, tapi paling tidak sayah sudah melihat mereka mencoba.

Don’t Stop Me Now

2004-12-18T01:50:00.000+07:00

A very close friend of mine, Wahyu, posted me a note saying: A wise man knows when to stop (It was something someone —I don’t know who— told Alexander The Great). Yu is my senior and a very close friend whom I admire since my first day of college. He was literally my mentor, and practically still is. When troubled, he helps me see through the sanest decision available and minimize —sometimes even cut off when necessary— affection.

He is right about me, at every inch. As much as I want to take his advise, I can’t. I can’t stop and don’t know how to. I’m that person Mr. Mercury described as an-atom-bomb-about-to-explode (I don’t actually enjoy the sex-machine-ready-to-reload part). I know exactly why I can’t stop. It isn’t that I am not easily satisfied. It’s because I’m terribly greedy. I can’t seem to get enough. I have the strength to see the same movies repeatedly, listen to the same song one whole day, read the same book front to back to front to back again (and again…). Just once is never my thing, and may never will be.

About a month ago another good friend of mine, Aleg, called and said that his dad, Sir Ray[1], wanted to see me and some of our friends to talk about possible media job (Sir Ray was a senior editor of a print media). After two passionate hours of talking (that was about twelve at night) instead of closing up, we moved on to another topic: history.

To say that the talk was interesting is an understatement. It was ecstatic! There he was, sat in front of me, a man who knows all those people I know only from newspapers. He talked about them of things I haven’t read anywhere! He talked through and through: the worst, the worse, the bad, the good, the better, and the best of them! On his face was the smile I envy. That was the smile of someone who enjoys every bit of second of his life. I swear I really want many of those.

That night I was dead tired. I spent seven hours at school and headed directly to Leg’s house. My eyes were killing me, but there was no way I was to let even one word of his slipped by. I lost him for about ten minutes. Aware, I got on my feet, went to the bathroom, poured my face cold water, fixed myself a cup of coffee, sat back, regained strength, and listened to him again. He was still talking with the same smile. I think we finally ended it at four.

I thought that was the best day I had this year, untill similar meeting about a week ago. This night, along with him came his friend, Sir Mochtar[2]. Sir Mochtar is 75 (and the meeting day was coincidentally his birthday). Sir Ray is 58. And we’re about to hit 30. That night, Sir Mochtar did most of the talking: again, about history. He spoke of almost all people in history. And he mention them on first name basis (He actually knows them)! I could swear that night, on Sir Ray’s face was the same amazement my face put on when he was doing the talking a month ago. And on Sir Mochtar’s was the smile I saw on Sir Ray’s a month ago. That night, as the night a month before, I didn’t want to go home. I wanted them two to sit still and kept talking.

You see, Yu, I can’t stop. Maybe not right now. Patience was always your thing, not mine. One day, I will need you to stop me again. I trust that you will still be around.

----
[1] Sir Ray is the name I have for Leg’s Dad. It is only the name in my head. I trust the Sir shows my admiration well.

[2] Sir Mochtar: See note above (note 1).

Let It Be True

2004-12-08T18:46:00.000+07:00

When I was 5, a girl came to me asking my name —hers was Lutfi. I think we were close after that. I met this cousin of mine once a year at our family gathering. I pictured her fast, smart, strong, not only unlike any girl, but boys too (me included). When we were 10 it felt weird playing together. We never play, not even talk, ever since. That I regret very much.

Her mom, Andung Erka, always treated me as a friend. We talked cassually. Even though I never knew Fi in person, I was well kept posted. Most of the times she talked about how proud she was of Fi: when she went to college, when she took flying lessons, when she got her first job, when she got married. I know that Fi grew up stronger and smarter every day. She literaly defeated boys on daily basis.

Two years ago she got divorced. Several months ago I met her son. A four-year-old as strong and smart as I remember Fi was. I can see where he got that from. Not more than a year ago, Fi remarried. Eight months ago, she got pregnant. Two nights ago, my dad called me —Fi was hospitalized. The next morning Fi died, but the child survived. Everything happened faster than fastest.

I don’t understand how someone so great, smart, and strong died so soon. I read that when a mom dies delivering her baby, she goes directly to heaven. A syuhadan. I don’t pray much, but I hope this one is heard and granted. Let that reading be true.

PS: Five years ago, I found out that Fi isn’t my cousin, my auntie instead.

I Forgot My Precious

2004-12-08T11:46:00.000+07:00

First story: I remember everything.....not
Yesterday, to avoid the forgetting-something routine, I made a what-item-to-bring list before actually going. For approximately five minutes, I experienced a glimpse of pride and glory for it was the first time I was 100% sure nothing is left behind. I swear I heard in my ears Ode To Joy, and I heard them loud. For someone as forgetful as I am[1], this achievement is considered revolutionary and deserves infinite rewards.

Stupidly as I usually am, I got my car keys in the proper place (plugged in the ignition hole), in the proper condition (car is locked), but with me in the terribly wrong place —outside the car. So much for the pride and glory. Ode To Joy was, I swear, paused. I heard nothing but silence. Instead of leaving an item or two accidentally, I had to leave all of them in purpose with great sadness.

Second story: My precious
As I arrived, the fact that I brought with me no bags struck hard the whole crowd. People constantly asked where’s your bag with a face —a face of amazement and disbelief that I was actually capable of leaving home without my gadgets[2].

One of them asked: where’s ‘my precious?’. Some of the rest then, as instant response, mimicked that words Gollum-like (complete with the throat thing). I found out that’s what they named my laptop. I insisted it was ‘Lala’[3]. Their counter arguments are acceptable, though. I had been wishing to have this laptop since 2001, the first day it was issued. Since then I browsed every website talking about it. I copy-pasted all pictures. I studied its strengths and weaknesses. I evaluated its price-performance. I can accurately recite its specifications, performance, price comparison, sales number even. I was practically the greatest asset for these manufatures for I know more than any retailers.

Almost everyone I know knows that I do not just want this laptop, but desired it. For three birthdays, I publicly announced that the greatest gift a friend could ever give me is that very laptop. It was sad to find that I have no such friend. I suspected price factor had something to with it. After a three-year evaluation, I decided to buy it.

It is true that I drool –did, still do, probably will always do— over Lala as Gollum did his ring. It is completely true that parting from it is greatly painful, as was when Gollum lost its ring. Probably also true that if someone takes it away from me, with all the strengh I have, I will puch, kick, even bite.

I gues it is My Precious. Good bye Lala.

---------
[1] Believe me, sesame street’s forgetful jones is not even the half of me.

[2] That day, I succeeded a number of times giving them back their equilibrium state when I said I didn’t leave them, I forgot them. If I were to be blessed with the ability to read minds, I know I will hear them think oh you forgot, that’s so you in various sentences and laughters.

[3] I always have a thing for the word Lala. I named my all temporary files and folders Lala. Lala for me, is the word smurf for the Smurfs. I have such imaginative-curious-and-creative friends speculating where that Lala idea came from.

2004-12-07T08:31:00.000+07:00

i cannot agree more

Hope for Bajuri

2004-12-05T17:38:00.000+07:00

Beberapa hari yang lalu, entah mulai dari mana, nama Bajaj Bajuri tersebut-sebut dalam perbincangan sayah dan teman sayah.

Bajaj Bajuri
Tanpa perempuan (sok) sensual maupun slapstick, Bajaj Bajuri mungkin bukan hanya serial komedi terbaik, tapi juga sinetron terbaik (kalau memang ya masuk kategori sinetron). Walau begitu, sayah tetap agak sungkan mengikuti serial ini. Setelah beberapa episode sayah mulai sadar bahwa serial ini ‘menjual’ kebodohan masing-masing karakter. Hampir semua karakter punya satu sifat (baca: bodoh) dan hanya agak berbeda untuk tiap orang. Yang lebih menyedihkan, sifat bodoh ini me-refer ke satu suku khusus (baca: Betawi).

Hal yang mirip pernah dilakukan serial Si Doel Anak Sekolahan. Namun begitu, Doel jauh lebih baik karena sifat bodoh karakter yang lain berfungsi untuk memperkuat karakter Doel (tidak berpikir vs. berpikir). Doel juga menetralisasi kebodohan tersebut melalui adegan-adegan yang membuat kita berpikir: aduh, sebetulnya orang-orang ini baik sekali ya dan menjadikan istilah naif menjadi jauh lebih cocok daripada bodoh. Sayang serial ini rusak begitu masuk tahun kedua. Cerita cinta segitiga Doel menonjol (bahkan berlebihan) dan kebodohan sisa karakternya pun terlalu dieksploitasi. Ditambah dengan mereka membintangi berbagai iklan rasanya seperti menonton Doel 24 jam.

Sayah berhenti menonton Bajuri karena selalu merasa bersalah ketika tertawa terbahak-bahak. Ada beberapa hal yang sebetulnya sayah harapkan berkembang dari Bajuri . Pertama, Bajuri bisa bertahan lebih dari tiga tahun. Kedua, Bajuri menunjukkan perkembangan karakternya. Toh mumpung berharap, kenapa tidak berharap berdasarkan standard yang terbaik?

Sex And The City: 1998-2004
Ini adalah serial tentang empat orang perempuan New York yang punya kecenderungan power-oriented, diperoleh baik melalui karir maupun —without surprise— seks. Walau dengan teman cerita yang riskan, Sex And The City (SATC) bukan hanya tidak ditolak oleh warga New York (khususnya perempuan), bahkan berkali-kali mendapat penghargaan[1]. Selama enam tahun siaran, serial ini mendapat 55 nominasi Emmy Awards dan memenangkan 7 di antaranya. Artinya: rata 10 nominasi dan 1 kemenangan tiap tahun. Tiap tahun Emmy menominasi serial ini untuk kategori Outstanding Comedies Series. Tiap tahun, complete series DVD-nya masuk sepuluh teratas penjualan Amazon.com (bahkan mengalahkan Frasier yang lebih banyak menang Emmy).

Friends: 1994-2004
Cerita tentang enam New Yorker yang (beberapa) sudah berteman sejak SMA. Temanya yang sangat umum mungkin salah satu alasaan serial ini bisa bertahan sepuluh tahun. Sepuluh tahun siaran! Rekor yang hanya dapat dikalahkan oleh Saturday Night Live [2]. Selama sepuluh tahun, Friends mendapat 63 nominasi dan memenangkan 7 Emmy Awards. Enam dari sepuluh tahun tersebut, Friends mendapat nominasi Outstanding Comedies Series. Seperti SATC, DVD-nya selalu best-sellers.

Bajuri mungkin adalah sedikit kombinasi SATC dan Friends. Seperti SATC, Bajuri sama-sama punya risiko menyinggung kelompok masyarakat tertentu. Pemirsa mulai menunjukkan perasaan tersinggung begitu SATC menginjak tahun ketiga dan keempat. Selama empat tahun SATC hanya bercerita tentang empat orang yang punya masalah cinta-seks yang sama dan tidak menemukan jawaban sama sekali. Empat tahun adalah keterlaluan. Bagi warga New York, terutama perempuan, semua pesta dan pakaian mereka tidak lagi cukup untuk menutupi kebodohan keempatnya. Di Amazon.com penjualan DVD mereka pun sedikit jatuh.

Pada tahun berikutnya, tema cerita serial ini mulai berubah. Karakter demi karakter mulai diceritakan jatuh cinta, ingin berkeluarga, bahkan punya anak. Selama dua tahun tema ini menjadi benang merah sampai akhirnya berakhir di tahun keenam. Masing-masing tokoh berubah 180 derajat dibanding mereka di tahun pertama. Charlotte akhirnya mencoba untuk mengadopsi anak, Carrie akhirnya menemukan Mr. Right, Miranda akhirnya jatuh cinta, bahkan Samantha mengalami sesuatu yang dia tidak pernah percaya: seseorang jatuh cinta padanya (bukan hanya untuk seks, yang mana adalah alasan utama ia menjadi ‘petualang’). Dengan kata lain, produser SATC merelakan mereka dewasa, seperti layaknya kebanyakan penonton mereka.

Bajuri, seperti layaknya Friends, juga menonjolkan kebodohan-kebodohan tokohnya. Bedanya dengan Bajuri , baik Joey, Chandler, Ross, Monica, Rachel, maupun Phoebe masing-masing punya sifat lain untuk ditonjolkan. Phoebe, yang paling bodoh (menentukan yang paling bodoh antara Joey dan Phoebe adalah pengalaman stress tingkat tinggi), justru yang pertama menemukan makna menjadi seorang ibu dan selalu mengingatkan teman-temannya kembali bila bertengkar. Joey, despite his brain level, selalu digambarkan yang paling ketakutan kehilangan teman-temannya, dan seterusnya. Seperti SATC, karakter Friends pun berkembang. Chandler yang paling takut menikah akhirnya berkeluarga, Joey akhirnya jatuh cinta, dan seterusnya. Highlight inilah yang tidak, mudah-mudahan belum, dimiliki oleh Bajuri.

Dalam dua tahun (paling lama) pemirsa akan melihat ini pada Bajuri. Pertanyaannya adalah, ketika ini terjadi, apakah Bajuri akan melanjutkan ‘berjualan’ seperti Doel atau bekerja keras membangun cerita mereka. Toh tinggal bersama bertahun-tahun pasti mengubah seseorang, kenapa tidak sekalian memodifikasi karakter dan cerita sekalian.

Sayah tahu adalah prematur dan tidak adil untuk berhenti mengikuti Bajuri. Pertama, Bajuri baru masuk tahun kedua (Kalau tidak salah. Sayah sudah lama tidak nonton). Kedua, ini mungkin serial pertama (setelah Senggal-Senggol gagal) yang layak mendapat faith dari pemirsanya. Walau begitu, sayah tetap berharap, kok. Plus sayah juga jarang sempat nonton tv.

[1] Yang sebelumnya melakukan hal senekad ini adalah Roberto Benigni untuk Life Is Beautiful. Ini mungkin satu-satu film drama komedi tentang Holocaust. Potensi film ini dikecam oleh bangsa Yahudi sangat besar. Yang lebih mengerikan lagi, Roberto Benigni bukan Yahudi!.

[2] Ini pun bukan perbandingan yang sepadan mengingat tema, penulis naskah, sutradars SNL dapat berubah tiap episode.

A Beautiful Mind, Episode 2

2004-11-28T18:03:00.000+07:00

I’ve been known as someone who strangely has the extreme need to be smart (please mind, needing to be smart and being smart are two different propositions). I turned aggressive when someone addresses me as stupid. I stop at nothing to shut their mouth, bury them, even. And I do this publicly. Revenge should taste ten thousand bitter. Sadly, at times, I lost.

The alter truth is, I enjoy being stupid. I like being around smart people and be stupid. I like listening to the beautiful thoughts they share. I love how they see things the way nobody does, and how they flip difficult matters to easy. Most of all, I love how they trust you with the things they share, that way they think you have the capacity to exerpt them. I love how their attitude shout that you —to them— are somehow someday are capable of doing the very same thing they did.

I spent this semester teaching a class where one of the students is a lady whom I suspected is way way out of my league. All this time, I made clear to my friends and colleagues that my classroom doors are —not closed, but— locked to them. I can’t stand the idea of them watching and play scores on me. Sweats will dip me, stutters will go with my speech. Yet something about this lady is soothing enough to keep teaching. I don’t have to worry that she will dub me stupid. Even if she does, which I don’t believe she had it in her, I don’t think I’d die.

She asked me for a tutor over a cup of coffee —offer I couldn’t wouldn’t shouldn’t refuse. I was right. To say she’s extremely smart is an understatement. She asked so many questions and formulated them in a flash. She even applied them cases to cases. This is something I never find in a student. Normally, I will in seconds feel small and embarassed. I wasn’t, though. Not very many people can be highly intellectual and comforting at the same time, and she’s one of them.

One day she approached me saying she may have something for me to work on. The project she handed me is something I have never done before. As scared as I am, she supply me with knowledge a piece at a time. Some time ago, I have the priviledge to meet her husband. To my surprise, sorry, I mean shock, she and her husband are two of a kind. They have years of experience of large-scale business of many kinds. I saw before me two people with same mind, same attitude. It’s like watching Episode 2 of A Beautiful Mind.

I thought to myself: all those knowledges and she still comes to classes, does her assignments which I know to her sound stupid, listens to teachers whom I’m sure are stupider that she is. Suddenly I fear of —I know— silly questions I asked her. I fear of what she may think of me. Quickly, I remember what my one teacher back in college said: there’s no such thing as stupid question. I bet all my movies-books-music collection that this lady share the same sentiment.

Meetings after meetings I learned a mountain of new things. Stories she tells constantly gives me the creep —this I mean in a good way. This is the highlight of my times of being stupid. I plan to continue some much more.

Indeed, In The Eye Of The Beholder

2004-11-27T01:53:00.000+07:00

Selama tujuh tahun sayah tinggal bersama orang-orang yang sangat menghayati pengalaman sehari-hari masing-masing. Ini adalah orang-orang yang sepanjang hidupnya sangat dekat dengan sejarah, sains, agama (bukan berarti religius, malah tidak ada dari kami yang religius), dan seni. Selama tujuh tahun sayah tinggal bersama sekumpulan orang yang sepakat bahwa life’s every little detail is beautiful and we sweat them all.

Karena serumah, hampir semua yang kami lakukan, kami lakukan bersama. Satu film kami tonton bersama berulang-ulang: American Beauty (1999). Tinggal bersama selama (waktu itu) empat tahun dengan hampir tiap malam mendefinisikan beauty, American Beauty tidak lagi film buat kami, melainkan anggota baru di rumah. Inilah punchline dari film tersebut:

Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it...

and my heart is going to cave in.
(Ricky Fitts )

Walau gagal mendapatkan definisi bersama, definisi kami masing-masing tetap terpoles jauh lebih rapi. Sebetulnya tidak satu pun dari kami berhasil, tapi paling tidak kami lebih jelas mendefinisikan objek-objek yang potensial kami hargai indah. Secara keseluruhan, diskusi kami membantu kami menjaga kontribusi subjektivitas (tapi tetap tidak bisa objektif —kan kami gagal membuat definisi objektf).

Here’s mine. Ada dua kelompok objek yang ternyata sayah hargai indah. Pertama, kelompok objek yang terkesan sangat sederhana, yang bahkan sayah bisa reproduksi, tapi terlewatkan: ya ampun, kok gueh nggak kepikiran itu ya? Kedua, kelompok objek yang terkesan dibuat melalui proses yang sangat kompleks yang sangat sulit yang hampir-hampir tidak bisa sayah bayangkan prosesnya. I prefer the first. Anything in between, biasanya sayah anggap sebagai karya yang belum matang.

Ketika seseorang yang naif dan lugu melukis ia menggunakan warna yang cenderung tidak berlebihan, menggubah lagu dengan aransemen dan jumlah instrumen yang cukup. Kelemahannya, ia melakukannya secara intuitif. Ia bahkan tidak sadar penuh betapa indah karyanya. Karya mereka biasanya masuk dalam kelompok objek pertama.

Ketika seseorang sedikit demi sedikit tahu pengetahuannya bertambah. Namun begitu, karena pemahamannya belum total elemen-elemen tambahan yang ada lepas dari kontrolnya. Konsekuensinya, keharmonisan karyanya terganggu: warna yang ia pilih tidak seimbang, terlalu banyak lapisan aransemen untuk mencapai wholeness, tapi malah belum merata. Ini tidak termasuk dalam kelompok satu maupun dua. Ini pandangan sayah terhadap hampir semua produk pop culture.

Suatu saat penghayatan seseorang yang demikian tingginya. Ia pada saat itu mengetahui (hampir) semuanya dan penuh kontrol. Pada saat itu karyanya terkesan sangat ‘penuh’ dan terkontrol. Ini adalah orang-orang dengan karya yang masuk kelompok objek kedua. Beberapa objek yang masuk kategory ini adalah: lukisan-lukisan MC Escher, lukisan Salvador Dali, Lagu-lagu Led Zeppelin, buku-buku Michael Crichton, The Matrix Series.

At the end of his/her journey, seseorang akan makin lancar dan mudah menggunakan pengetahuannya. Ia bisa melihat benang merah pengetahuannya hingga semua terlihat sederhana. Dan ia bisa menyampaikan ini secara sederhana pula pada orang lain. Pada saat itu, karyanya akan lagi-lagi terlihat sederhana. Sayah menangkap kesan rendah hati pada orang-orang ini. Karyanya akan masuk kelompok objek pertama lagi.

Untuk kelompok pertama, sayah pun tidak bisa membedakan antara yang naif dan rendah hati, tapi ini lah karya-karya mereka: self-portrait John Lennon, CD cover buatan Thane Kerner (termasuk semua CD cover Dave Matthews Band, kartun-kartun Paul Cooker, komik Calvin and Hobbes-nya Bill Watterson, film-film Pixar, Dead Poets Society, What a Wonderful World-nya Louis Armstrong, Signe-nya Eric Clapton, Bulan dan Bintang-nya Cozy Street Corner, buku-buku Nick Hornby. (seperti sayah bilang, I prefer the second)

…..
Kira-kira tiga bulan lalu, sayah menemukan ini:

For I impair not beauty, being mute
(I remain silent so I won’t damage what’s already beautiful)
Shakespeare Sonets
Sonet 83 line 11

Waktu itu sayah tertawa lemas. Sesetuju-setujunya sayah, bila sayah mengulang tahun 1995, sayah akan purposefully bicarakan hal yang sama selama 4 tahun (mungkin lebih).