If someone takes a spill, it’s me and not you! Who told you you are allowed to rain on my paraaaaaaaade?

Damn. I am on the rag (and I get very cranky and bitchy and all, oh woman!!)!!

But wait, I was just about to say this one thing: I don’t understand, really, I totally don’t understand this call from Islam and Christian, and in fact all religions about the “love and pray for you enemies” thing.

I mean, seriously, love your enemies, how?

According to The Free Dictionary: enemy. n. pl. enemies: one who feels hatred toward, intends injury to, or opposes the interests of another.

Hatred.

How can you put the words: hatred and love in one line as in “love your enemies”?

Didn’t religions teach us to be honest and give up all hypocrisies? I think loving your enemy must be one hell of a hypocrisy? I mean, you love someone but you intend to injure them?

I just don’t understand.

Oh wait. Maybe, religions only told us to “pretend” to love our enemies? But, can that be? Religions never taught you to pretend you like someone when you are not, they will call you a faker.

So you see. The whole “love your enemies” thing is against logic! It’s simply not plausible or even possible!

Damn. Now I remembered a friend, he once shrugged my shoulders saying: since when religions are logical? Damn.

I’ll march my bad out, I will beat my drum. And if I’m fanned out, your turn at bat, Sir!

And no, I do not have enemies. Although if I have one, I don’t think I can love him/her/it. I mean, how can I?

But as a future Nobel Peace Prize Winner, I do not have a plan to make enemies. I only want to have a million friends and zero enemy! (and yes, the next thing you know I’ll be the next President of the Republic of Indonesia).

Islam is cheaply sold in every corner of this town
By them, those who beg
by the pieces of white veils and
the many pecis

And so they negotiate, inside
metromini,
and recreational places

In the corners of this town full of mosques
They furiously sell the truth
Inside those little jars marked as: infaq
Inside those white envelope of amal jariyah

They magically turn the Great names into their brands
The orphanages have been the impostors
As if forgetting one thing:
“Giving is more glorious than receiving”

Ah, I want to write God a letter tonight
About those losing consciences
Will He take me away to the far away land?
Show me, and you,
No truth is offered for sale there
Not even through death

By: me and translation by: Nurenzia Yannuar

The Indonesian version

Islam dijual murah di sudut-sudut kota ini

Islam dijual murah di sudut-sudut
kota ini,
Oleh mereka yang menadah-tadah
dalam selembar kerudung putih dan
peci-peci

Bertransaksi mereka, di dalam-dalam
metromini,
juga tempat-tempat rekreasi

Di pojok-pojok kota penuh masjid ini,
mereka jual kebenaran dengan keji
Dalam toples-toples cekak bertulis: infaq
Dalam amplop-amplop warna bertanda amal jariyah

Disulaplah nama-nama Agung menjadi merknya
Pondok-pondok yatim piatu jadi pengelabu
Lupa mereka selarik pesan:
Wahai kalian, lebih mulialah memberi ketimbang menadah
di bawah

Ah, ingin kutulis surat pada Tuhan malam ini
Ihwal mereka yang kehilangan nurani
Lantaskah Dia mengajakku ke negeri-negeri sebrang jauh?
Menunjukkan kepadaku, dan kalian,
Di negeri-negeri itu, kebenaran tak sedia dijual,
tak sekalipun lewat ajal

Dear Parents Who Brought Their Kids To The Classical Music Concert Last Night:

I have no doubt that both of us, me and you — Parents, share the same interests in classical music. Who are your favorites? Mine are a lot! But the top three might be Tchaikovsky, Chopin, and Bach. I am a bit bored with Mozart lately.

Anyway, I am very sure that you might (or might not) have other names. Maybe Brahms? Correct! The young maestro Iskandar Widjaja did play a Brahms, Scherzo, last night. I think it was some three notes F–A-flat–F or something right? As Iskandar mentioned this Frei Aber Einsam (FAE) or “Free, But Lonely” notes before he started playing. I don’t know Brahms that well, apology.

So, what do you think about his last night’s concert? Agreed, he was indeed great (aside from being incredibly hot too)! I think it was pretty short, but I could catch his energy and every single distinctive sound he made with his violin. When I closed my eyes, last night during the concert, and listened to him… I felt like: damn, it’s a recording quality!

I don’t know how you made it to the concert, Parents, but I literally struggled to get there on time. I took a taxi, and asked the driver to go to Bintaro via Tanah Kusir (it’s the nearest route from my place in Palmerah). I swear to God I got inside the taxi at 5.30 p.m. or 90 minutes prior the concert. But an hour and a half anticipation did not seem enough for Jakarta-Bintaro’s demented traffic. Two bloody intersections in Tanah Kusir alone ate my 50 to 60 minutes up. I was about to cry, you know, in panic and despair. I kept asking the driver were we still far from Bintaro toll entry? (I think me and my friend, Hanief, should thank him that he did not kick us out of his cab). Oh yes, don’t mention the rain! I know, It worsen the traffic. Sucks to the max.

But traffic was one thing, dearest Parents. I had of course another issue called “a black dress.” I did not know what I have been munching in the past six months, but now my cute black dress is failing me (or me failing it). It doesn’t fit me anymore, me and my holly fat. I ended up wearing my black ruffles dress, I should thank Elvin for that, because it was her who suggested me to pick that one. I did not look that “black tie ready” but I was fine. Yes, I observed that you Parents also came out with some sweet dresses and suits.

So you see, it was a miracle that I made it there — magically — on time. And of course, as your own plans, too, I supposed, we only wanted to enjoy the concert.

Oh Parents, but did you actually notice what happened then? I couldn’t believe my ears, but besides catching every incredible sound Iskandar was producing with his violin, I also could hear this continuous coughing noise made by little kids. Continuously means non-stop, mind you, for minutes. Also, several other children’s noise, I think some of them was about to cry, another yelled a word or something. It happened in several seconds, then stopped. Then the kids made that noise again. Stopped and on again.

I know, it did not happen that long. But still, was several times and very irritating.

It went very annoying like this: beautiful sound of violin, Iskandar was playing Ravel, Sonate Pour Violon Et Piano, with Christine Utomo. Cough cough cough. Violon et piano. Yell yell yell. Violon et piano. Cry cry cry. Violon et piano. Cough cough cough.

Seriously, Parents, with all due respect, what the fuck?

You bet I know this Golden Rule that parents should introduce their children to classical music. Asking them to learn piano or violin, becoming the next Iskandar Widjaja or just for brain stimulating, whatever, I agreed. Classical music is very beautiful. But Parents, do you know that there is a Platinum Rule, a much more empathetic, sensitive moral guideline than the Golden Rule? Yes there is, and it says: “Never ever, ever, ever take thy kids to classical music concerts!”

Not when they are still three or four or five and could not stop coughing or yelling some words or almost crying during the concert? That is very very very disturbing, for your information, Parents.

Do not get me wrong, you might hear from some friends that I am not a kids-person. Well, that is half true, but I am not saying this because I don’t like little kids. I am writing you this letter simply to re-inform you the existence of the Platinum Rule (in case you forgot it already) or acknowledge it (in case you do not know such rule exists). Also, I am writing this for the sake of the future (all the classical music concerts that you and I might attend).

I truly and honestly think that parents who are caring and supportive of their children’s musical lives are awesome. As long as you, Parents, remember the Platinum Rule. Take your kids to classical music concerts when they know how to enjoy them best. I am sure you too do not like the annoying coughing and yelling and crying noise, do you?

And please, I beg you, to not reply this letter of mine asking me to complain to the concert organizer instead for not having a “children under six are not allowed to enter” policy. Life is complicated already when it implicates two parties, so please abort the idea of involving a third between us.

Yours affectionately,

(signed)

Anita Rachman

P.S. I noticed there was a mother who took their children out of the hall in the middle of the concert after they making some noise. I thank you, I really do!

Oh there, what a perfect opening for my first 2012 blog post. But what can I say?

At a time like this, I just want to get inside the Great Persky’s magic box, like what Professor Kugelmass did. He would get inside the cheap-looking Chinese cabinet, waiting for Persky to throw a book to him. Once the professor got the book and tapped it three times, he would find himself projected into that book. Professor Kugelmass ended up making love to Madame Bovary.

But I only want to meet Santiago, and sail the blue Havana ocean with him, at a time like this. I want the Great Persky to throw me Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.

Grab the image from here.

Tap tap tap.

It is still dark. Santiago, the old man, leads our way. We walk in silence. I can only see his back. He’s pretty tall and his shoulders seem powerful, although very old — just like what Manolin said in the book.

His posture and aura, they are exactly like what I have always imagined. He is a calm man, I tell myself. And you can feel this strange tranquil feeling when walking behind him.

“I had a bad day,” I inform him, to his absent reply.

He walks pretty fast for an old man. He is barefoot. I gaze at his old shirt — that had been patched so many times. I regret that I did not bring him some clean blankets.

I feel ashamed, I should have not wore this stupid Jamiroquai’s t-shirt, and shoes. Oh my God, why did I wear them? Yeah, my Converse shoes. I hate Converse. God, I look completely 2000s.

But that old, best fisherman, seems not to care about what I am wearing. It’s not surprising. His head must be filled with places he went and lions he saw, his wife, and the Yankees. He is crazy about them, Yankees that cannot lose.

Suddenly, he says something. He says he can feel the morning coming. I can, too, then I hear myself saying, “a chill in the air.”

Santiago keeps walking, but then stops, abruptly. He turns his face toward mine, examining, he might be looking at me in the eyes — I cannot really tell, dark still.

“What’s your name, again?” he asks, with his deep voice.

“Anita,” say I.

“You are Manolin’s friend?”

“Yes,” I lie.

Of course I lie. I must.

I must not meet Manolin. He is pretty obsessed with Santiago, I am sure he wouldn’t be so ecstatic to learn that Santiago is now having a new company on board — a girl, me.

But the old man is the kindhearted type. He would welcome anyone to his old boat, like he did to me just now. He has been sailing alone the Gulf Stream for forty four days, since Manolin left him for another boat just to please his parents.

“I haven’t taken a fish for eighty-four days. People said that I am definitely and finally salao. But today, we are going far out,” he tells me, I can hear optimism in his voice.

You know, salao, it’s the worst form of unlucky.

We get into the boat and start rowing. And Santiago tells me he can hear the trembling sound made by the flying fish, one of his favorites from the ocean.

We row steadily, he is so calm, and strangely I am too. We are drifted with the current. I feel peaceful. It seems there are only us; the old man, the sea, and I in this big ocean of Havana.

I lay down, impolitely, like a yacht-owner, with his captain Santiago drives the small boat in silence. But he seems to comprehend my “I had a bad day” situation. He smiles at me, understandingly. Then I make this thank-you-so-much face.

I can only hear the ocean’s streams, and some birds up there flying. Streams and birds are the music of the ocean, I tell myself. I am the ocean’s child.

Not long. The light starts to illuminate the big flat ocean. He warns me that the glare of the light might hurt my eyes, it did to his. He doesn’t have shades, of course. I am wearing glasses so it’s not so bad.

I tell Santiago I want to see some plankton.

“Soon,” he says. “We are down in the blue water at one hundred and one hundred and twenty-five fathoms.”

It is when you see the darker blue ocean, it is so dark you might think it is purple. Then, I rise. The light doesn’t hurt our eyes so badly anymore. I look up, there are man-of-war birds flying.

“Dolphin,” the old man says aloud. “Big dolphin.”

I gasp. Ready to jump, until…

Knock knock knock.

“Anita, your time is up!” the Great Persky shouts from outside of… the sea, the cabinet.

Oh damn. Didn’t I tell you I had a bad day, Persky?

Sebab dia telah menyusun sebuah rencana
penting
bersama buyung dan upik
serta seplastik keripik

Untuk bertemu merak
dan rusa
atau unta yang menari merayu
memohon seikat kacang

Hari ini dia akan melupa
dengung sinis mesin-mesin,
atau ribuan kaleng sama rupa
yang harus dia menghitungnya

Hari ini bukan sekadar Ahad,
baginya

PS: you might want to check this.

Ini surat ke-206 yang kutulis
untukmu, tuan presiden
Mungkin salah satunya sudah tuan baca,
ibu tua ini merindu anaknya

Tiga belas tahun lalu dia pergi kuliah
Mencium tanganku dia berkata,
Ibu aku akan pulang segera
Tunggulah aku untuk makan bersama

Jika tuan sudah membaca,
surat-suratku jelas bercerita
Anakku tak pernah kembali pulang
Seorang aparat menembaknya sore itu

Sebutir peluru menembus dadanya
Bersarang ia menghabisi nafasnya,
merenggut semangat dan nyawanya
mencerabut jiwaku

Hingga kini, tuan presiden
aku tak bisa lupa
Wajah anakku dan kaus yang dia kenakan
di hari itu

Mungkin sebab aku ibunya,
yang rahimnya pernah hangat membungkusnya
Yang teteknya pernah puas dihisapnya
Yang tak terbatas jumlah kasihnya

Tuan presiden,
ini surat ke-206 yang kutulis
Dan tak berhenti surat pasti kukirim
Terus menerus akan kutunggu jawabmu

Jawaban tuan untuk seorang ibu tua,
yang merindu sungguh
anak lakinya, dan keadilan
Dan keadilan

Catatan: Terinspirasi dari seorang ibu luar biasa yang saya temui hari ini (9 Desember). Selamat hari Hak Asasi Manusia (HAM), adili mereka yang tangannya berdarah.

I went to the Tribute Night, was so glad that I made the decision to go. I copied his Salampah Laku form the committee’s files. I madly respect this man, especially after (because I did not have any idea who he was before the festival) knowing what he has done and his thoughts.

Here I share with you, enjoy!

Ida Pedande Made Sidemen held by one of his students. Photo’s taken from 2011 UWRF Committee

SALAMPAH LAKU

Ida Pedanda Made Sidemen

Behold,
A world swarmed with men
Useless men, indolent men
Who like the birds
Chirping continuously
About things above their heads

Behold,
How in the season of sadness
All take to the air
Abandoning  worldly miseries
Into sunya
Aspiring to be wiser

Back from my  journey
I know nothing
Without knowledge, without words
Ignorant of the divine
Darkness descends on my heart
Obscuring North and South
Lustful thoughts, vain words, injuring actions
Embrace me
I flee to the villages, begging for foods
Beseech for sanctuary
To be a cloud, completely

Then the beautiful lady speaks
My beloved man
I shall fulfill my heart’s promise
Forsaking my parents
Seeking the simplicity of the mind
Although death may be the price
If  I yield and turn back now
Nothing will be gained
Not even a single word
That’s why
A woman is called the great earth

I forget my duty
Because of that I mature unknowingly
On the tip of my clothing
I look at you with a strange feeling
But, I have already uttered that
I desire you
Withholding tears night after night
I long for you
And my tears become rain

Father, mother
Look at me now
I am in anguish
I am dead
In my next life
I want to be born in Sanur again
To serve and love you
Father, Mother
Like a king
With an ungrateful daughter

Ah, indeed I am a selfish person
Enslaved by my desire
A source of constant regret
In meditation, I see the earth below, the sky  above
Keeping me awake
For my mind is untamed
There is always something
To sadden me
Remembering many things
From the mundane to the exotic
Recalling events that were my past

Ah, my beloved woman
Have your heart been opened
To accept insults
Being pelted at outsiders
Like me and my mind
Only   words could purify
fit things to their destiny
Misery would not stand in the way
And your name shall be famous
Yet, it shall be tied with other names

I am with him
The great ascetic
The free soul in the flower garden
Learning by listening
Not by feeling
I kneel before Hyang Ummasruti
Lord of wadhu
Lord of the devout women

now prepare yourself
washing,  cleaning
to cleanse your body
to purify your soul
in the new moon, in the full moon
to recite His name on every night
to invoke the deities of Sanur
fragrant air
fragrant flowers
fragrant incenses
Five Goddesses and devotees of beauty

If I to be born again
I wish to be born in a rich family
With beautiful face
Equal to the royal ladies
A magnificent beauty
With the king as a husband
Engulfed with pleasure
That is the ideal
Famous
Victorious over all women

Like a young prince
Crowned as the grand duke
His feet never touches the ground
Carried here and there on a wooden sedan
My intention now
Leading a life of simplicity
Having no rice field to toil with
I shall cultivate the land within
Skills of the poor
will help many in the villages

I am not a fan of free market or privatization. I have never been. And I don’t think we should encourage those practices. Why? Because they simply won’t bring betterment. Not for the underdeveloped countries, at least. But you see, these kinda talks have always seen as “high” or “sophisticated” topics that everyone raising the very issues must be some “socialist” or “commie” or “playing-smart” or “boring!” dudes.

Thus, when Occupy Wall Street started to merge last month in the city that never sleeps, the New York, I was so happy. Finally, I got to see bunch of people, the laymen, talking and cursing capitalism.

And I did not have to wait for long for the movement to inspire people around the globe, including people here in Jakarta. Starting last week, Jakarta has its own movement: Occupy Jakarta.

I haven’t again checked it, but if they still manage to stay, everyone passes the Indonesia Stock Exchange (BEI) building in South Jakarta in the morning till afternoon now might see a group of [now still small] people gathering, ranting about how capitalism is entering its end.

God knows I couldn’t be happier seeing those people coming from various backgrounds telling each other their opinions about capitalism. I remember one protestor brought a poster says: “The 1% is making history, but the 99% is trying to change it.”

Surely, not everyone in the city supports the movement. Many said the movement won’t gather steam if they stuck on the abstract capitalism issues. Another said Occupy Jakarta supporters are childish followers, because why bother Indonesia’s economy, when now it is in its best shape since 1997? They suggest these childish people to fight for more concrete problems such as religious intolerance and violence, or corruption.

I am not saying these notions are wrong, or think that they are not significant matters worth struggle for. But I always believe economy, or prosperity to be exact, is the core of all problems. Even I believe the intolerance issues got to do with it.

Basically, if you have enough money and can send your children to good schools they will get good education, no? They’ll learn many things, including respecting others, no? And when you are content and happy, you surely will say no to an offer of joining a religious rally or attack for $3, no?

Certainly, our economy is blooming and might be in its best shape since the last crisis, based on statistic. Based on new BPS stats released on July, the poor now constitute 12.5 percent (30.02 million) of Indonesia’s population, down from 13.3 percent (31.02) last year (poverty line = Rp 233,740 ($27.35) per capita per month). And the government sees an accumulated $94.7 billion in foreign exchange reserves — the largest amount in Indonesian history. Further, the country is also targeting 6.4 percent of economic growth this year. What a compelling data!

But let me break the news again: statistic often deceits us. You think the 6.4 economic growth will send 20 (out of 50) million of Indonesian children to schools? Or homeless people under the bridges to some decent housing complexes? Help people in Papua’s villages find accesses to medical and education facilities? No and no and no.

Statistics don’t answer the real problems. They never have.

Why capitalism issues should be addressed? I agree with Nurkholis Hidayat, one of the supporters of Occupy Jakarta and the director of the Jakarta Legal Aid Foundation. He said capitalism (free market, privatization, liberalism) eats up the country. It involves corruption and collations. How? Look at Indonesian, or international, big corporations in Indonesia.

“They are colluding with the government, that’s how they make it even worse,” he said.

I met several Papuan journalists last month. They told me, among others, there is this oil and gas company that had signed a 90 year-contract of exploration with the local government.

Yes, nine-fucking-ty years. It happened under the government watch. The government lets private ownership to control properties. (And no, people around the area are not becoming rich whatsoever).

Middle Class people might not see this issue crucial (?) because they don’t make 50 cent per hour, facing abusive employer/supervisor, who will growl and slap them when he/she gets angry!

(By the way, I am not going to talk about free market again because I have told you my opinion about it in the previous post!).

I remember I asked Nurkholis a question, “So how the group will address this issue? How do you fight it? What’s the solution? Who is responsible for this mess?”

He answered: “Let’s not talk about how and who we’ll be addressing with this issue,” he said. “Let it go naturally. We just hope more people will support this movement, because our goal is to raise awareness among the 99, and we won’t stop.”

Indeed. The work that has to be done in Indonesia is not (yet) telling the 1% to stop abusing their power in cultivating the people’s land. But to utter a loud call to the 99% that, “Hey! Capitalism (free market, privatization, collusion, liberalism) creates gaps and inequality. The poor are getting poorer, and the rich are getting richer.”

How will we address it and clean up the mess are the next issues we should think of… when the 99% understand the importance of this talk. When they, we, are rock-solid.

Bali dancers by Ario Pratisto

IT WAS VERY UNFORTUNATE for Bali for having me in the time of rage (you know, rage is an uncontrollable anger). But then again Bali might never be so lucky, ultimately, because I am always mad (you know, mad is an adjective, and it means: insane).

I went to Ubud, Bali, last week from 4 to 10 October. I volunteered for the 2011 Ubud Writers and Readers Festival. A five-day writers festival, the biggest in Indonesia, and among the top six best literary festivals in the world — so the Harper Bazaar, UK, reported.

I didn’t really check the writers lineup. I only knew Junot Diaz was confirming to come (apparently he didn’t, but it’s not really surprising, no?).

But I wasn’t angry because Junot was ill and couldn’t keep his oath to visit Bali, the beautiful city (oh is it?), and Ubud the quite and peaceful place (it’s true!). I was in a temper because a week before I actually walked on Ubud streets for an hour to just reach the Volunteer Basecamp, I met a journalist from Bali.

We met in a national conference for female journalists in Jakarta. I was (am?) mad not because of the meeting, because I must admit it was a quite lovely meet up. I was mad cuz I learned that Bali is now growing old and sad, so my friend told me. Old like our grannies losing their youth and beauty, living with wrinkles and tasteless porridge because she suffers from diabetes (please, Anita!) and sad as in the old lady couldn’t even remember that she too was once young and pretty.

“People are now queuing for transmigration programs. It’s not easy to find jobs in Bali, 80 percent of properties in Bali are owned by Jakarta people or foreigners,” she told me.

I am not a stupid racist or a chauvinist pig. But I met a group of journalists from Papua several weeks before I eventually met that female Balinese journalist. I even wrote an article about them and their documentary writings on kampongs in Papua.

You know what they told me? That Papua too is not happy. Kampongs in Papua are all lack of basic facilities, such as schools, community health centers, bridges, water supplies. It is 2011 but many people in Papua still rely on rainwater for drink. It is indeed the year of intellectual celebration because we can prove that God is an insignificant element in the creation of universe, but do you know that a lot of high school students in Papua could hardly read? Do I? I thought I do, but maybe I simply don’t.

Dying of malaria and tuberculosis are not news there, because you need hours to reach nearest Puskesmas and should consider yourself lucky if you ever find a nurse or doctor in that small community health center.

Where do the Papua’s treasures go? I don’t think there’s another brainy machine can provide you the best answer but my Mr Lovely Google. But a short answer might hiss: it did not go to the Papuans.

So tell me, just tell me how could i not be mad seeing these?

But I went to Bali anyway, Ubud. And I attended one of the sessions where Stephen Lansing sat in front speaking about “The Cycle of Rice.”

He said Bali lost around 100 hectares each year for villas (are they owned by Jakarta bourgeois?). People are converting their fertile soil to damn villas (yeah, there when I just lost my grip).

Lansing is today fighting for UNESCO to acknowledge Subak as one of the world cultural heritages, thus Balinese must keep Subak. You know what Subak is? You can ask Mr Handsome Google, but in short it is an irrigation/water management system for farmers. Yes, keeping Subak means keeping farmers and their lands.

Mr Lansing, seriously, 100 hectares land per year are gone? Hell, you are probably right for I saw villas and villas and villas here and there in Ubud! I even stayed in one. So they are gone? Gone to the 80 percent Jakarta and foreign owners? Again, you can ask Mr Sexy Google. Do Google suicide rate in Bali as well, please.

I am not a Wonder Woman because I do not run around wearing only my underwear on the outside — you know real superheroes wear their costumes that way, and I simply can’t because I don’t have sexy legs — but did it ever occur to you that occupying someone else’s properties or… I don’t know how to put it, but things like that, is a form of injustice? Don’t you think there should be someone putting a stop the very practice? I don’t know, maybe the government if they don’t involve themselves in the game.

Can Bali just own by Balinese, like Papua should have been ruled by the Papuans? If you know what I mean. And I am not a stupid racist or a chauvinist pig or a primordial dinosaur. I am just an angry girl.

Maybe my Papuan journalist fellow was correct after all, “the problem is that despite the presence of the government, we don’t feel that it’s actually governing,” she said.

Sometimes I think… ah damn, I cannot tell you, I am not having the qualifications, yet, to write an Op-Ed. And yes you can try asking Mr Bald Google, but he probably won’t give you the answer anyway.

I sometimes am still mad. I need to cool off.

PS: I will get back to you with more sober materials on the festival. After I find my cool-off pills, of course!

But I have a problem now. And I think I need an analyst, or at least friends who can really tell what’s going on with me.

Believe it or not, I am worrying myself lately. Why? Because I have been fast forwarding films I watched — especially those with suspense in them. I also skipped scenes with blood and those where the main characters got humiliated. I just couldn’t help to not skip those kinda scenes.

Yes. Those things have indeed left me with a question: God, is there something wrong with me?

Because a friend borrowed these comic books of mine, and I told her easily, “Hey, Ms. X is going to marry Mr. Y in the end.” And she was all like, “What? Why did you tell me that!” And I was like, “What? I thought that that would make you even far more eager to read it by yourself.” Then she replied, “What? No!”

See, my today’s problem is: I am very much okay with spoilers.

I used to read reviews before watching a film. But they were only reviews! Not spoilers. These whole lot spoilers are more than reviews, I am afraid this state will somehow affect my psychological condition *serious face*

Actually, I have tried to find some helps. Thus, I tweeted this important question like days ago, and a friend, Caroline Damanik, replied. She said it was a syndrome of “instant generation.”

Am I one of those who believe in the instantaneousness? That could be true. I might be don’t have that enough patience, especially for just fictions!

But Freud would have said more than that. You cannot ignore fictions and how you react to them. Maybe, I am just tired of sad endings? But wait, I just have one or two sad endings in life, I got more happy endings. And no, my life’s good, not sucks. I mean, I am going to [hopefully] meet Junot Diaz this October in Ubud, how can you call that sucks?

The thing is, I could watch movies in a calmer state when I know that the endings would be the one I have anticipated/wanted or at least close to. I can bear all the sorrows as long as I know that in the end, the triumph is mine, ho ho ho. Damn. I didn’t behave like this before. Normally not.

Well, maybe, I just don’t have enough time. You see, the whole 15 series of the cheap drama will eat up my time, while I cannot wait to know the end — oh well, instantaneity, sigh. Or, maybe I am just getting old and less spontaneous? Either way, it’s SAD, no?

What am I gonna do?

Although I don’t know exactly what my problem is, I think I know what the solution is: deleting the fast forward button! Oh, how I wish Steve Jobs could do that for me. Too bad he’s also has his own health issues.