Cinema and Me

Cinema & Me


I am writing this note as a boy, a man and a person whose love for cinema remains undying. Until now.

As far as I can recall, my earliest childhood memory always revolves around films and cinema.
I remember my parents often took me to watch latest films of comedy troop Warkop DKI and we had to wait until the "Film Utama" neon sign switched on because I was afraid of the dark! You can read the similar story here.
Back then, we knew whether the film we were about to watch had already been screened inside the cinema or not while we waited outside, thanks to three neon signs that said "Akan Datang" (Coming Soon), "Segera" (Soon), and the aforementioned "Film Utama (The Main Film). Never knew what's the difference between the first two, but then I always thought that the first one was for the films that would play in further weeks than the the second sign.
Of course, as we age, we knew that such assumption did not always prove to be right.

The upgrade from fear to excitement began when the 10 year-old boy daringly braced the age restriction and did not sneak, mind you, but bought ticket to watch Music Box and watched the film alone. All by myself, with companion of snack that I was sneaking into, I stood alone mesmerized by Jessica Lange uncovering the crime her father did during World War II. My mind kept thinking about the film when I strolled along big roads to find "mikrolet" (public transportation) to bring me home.
A year later, the similar experience happened when, again, sitting on a front row, I watched Dead Poets Society alone, struck a conversation with a stranger and we engrossed in talks about the film. Sometime after that, I kept dreaming and wishing of entering all-boy school, which luckily by destiny, it never happened.

Those two, along with many other similar cinematic populists that marked the cusp of my transformation from a boy to a teenager, ushered in many more memorable experiences that had many things to do with cinema:
• watched Dying Young, Mrs. Doubtfire and many other films in fasting month, instead of going to mosque;
• against parents' order of age restriction, I watched The Bodyguard on Valentine's Day, with a date of course;
• watched Forrest Gump with half of classmates the first time. The second time, it was pure coincidence: after defeated from an English contest, me and my fellow team members went home and we said to each other, "let's have some rest." Little did we know that instead of resting, we went to one of the cinemas in town to watch Forrest Gump, and we realized that we all had just watched the same film when we met one another after the film ended!
• always marked my birthday in teenage years by going to cinema. Mobsters, Dangerous Minds, etc.;
• genuinely terrified by Mary Shelley's Frankenstein where Robert De Niro took the heart of Helena Bonham Carter, literally;
• after a day of busy extra curricular activities at school, watched forgettable films like Up Close and Personal and Love Affair that put me to sleep;
and so many others that unfortunately went to haze memory as the book that had the ticket stubs of those films went missing, along with some other bags a few years ago.

Time went by, I moved to a foreign shore for a few years, only to be brought back home with a rejuvenated passion for cinema. As I became more involved in the field, I gained more knowledge, all of which only fueled my belief that I absolutely know nothing about film and cinema, thus make me dying to learn.
God knows how many DVDs I bought, how many films I had in digital format, how many screeners I saw in a year, how many film books I bought, but none can compare the majestic view of cinema. Actually, my Excel database knows the exact amount, but then, who can beat God anyway?

Being a public place, cinema allows us to experience social activities of going out, meet other people or even if we go alone, we see other people. We interact with ticket attendants, concession counter staff, annoying sales people offering products, seeing posters that leave us wondering sometimes with odd photo-editing, and of course, seeing larger-than-life image with collective response.

Only last week I was lucky enough to catch a midnight screening of 127 Hours, and I could hear collective grasp of seeing what James Franco has to do in order to survive living. The collective grasp, which I only heard because I was too busy shrieking and closing my eyes, gave me a sense of excitement because everybody reacted to what they see. The communal activity of screaming or laughing, unexpectedly I encountered in many Katherine Heigl's comedies seen on big screen, have unconsciously driven me to cinema over and over again: to experience the togetherness.

For sure I can always boast that I watched many Criterion titles at the comfort of home, but then, it's only me and my dolls. Nothing beats the joy of seeing how people react together of what they see on big screen. Notice how I repeat the sentence? I can't control it. Google my film reviews, there are numerous attempts of writing "in a darkened cinema hall", because I believe on the power of films being seen on big screen. Again.
Otherwise, I won't be doing what I am doing right now, career-wise. Hard work in months are eased by people clapping at the end of films, or booing, which led to complains and discussions that I still embrace with open arms.

Time has changed, digital means start taking over. We are brought together now by RTs, Like buttons in several online sites, and films became more of a challenge to sit through without temptations of checking how many people reply or forward our opinions.
Yet, in a city with very limited means of affordable public entertainment, cinema remains a popular option. In fact, I can say with little pride, some cinemas in town have gone all the way in giving comfort and technical specifications for audience to enjoy.

Thus, imagine the shock, anguish and surprise (not necessarily in that order) of receiving the news that there will be no more new imported films in local cinema. Each imported film will have to obey new tax rules, i.e. increment of 23.75% of every film brought in the country, in addition to other taxes that have been applied to companies and cinemas.
This is the so-called attempt to revive declining interest in national film development, because cinemas now have to be filled with local films to attract audiences to go.

Really?

As I said, I am writing this as a filmgoer, a common audience who feels deprived of choices. You cannot take the rights of choosing, because people who are not free to choose are people who are imprisoned for the rest of their lives.
Films, regardless of nationalities, are worth watching for being a good on their own, not defined by the languages nor the countries they are made in or by.
As someone who is still believe by living a social and communal life, the dearth of cinema leads to living a life less culturally, especially in a city where, again, there are already limited options of mass entertainment. I don't count texting during traffic jam an entertainment, thank you.

With an exhausted disappointment, I shall end this note in a confusion. A slight of hope in me is still believing that perhaps negotiations between related parties to solve the case is still underway, as cinema chains, especially the one with hundreds of sites, face the threat of closure and leaving many out of jobs in this hard time.
The domino effect is at the brink of happening. The country's reputation is at stake, because nobody is interested to do business here.
Local filmmakers may have greater challenge to up their antes to fill empty screens and bring audiences back to cinema. I have somewhat hope and encouragement in this, that despite limited support in facilities, education and vast human resources, there'll be magic in the making. Hopefully.

In a less eloquent note, I can ask you all: please don't give up on our local cinema. Who knows how long we will have to wait until the dark clouds have been lifted off of the sky, but don't give up. The least of the very least is cherishing the memory for future generations to come that for once, a true filmgoing activity happened and was vividly alive in the face of the town.

It's Good to be Back

After a very long hiatus, I've decided to come back blog again.



Having made writing one of possible means to support myself financially, I didn't realize how far I was removed from the joy of writing nonsense about things I like most, without the burden of pleasing editors and meeting deadlines.

However, the said experience will reflect nonetheless in future entries.
That is another way of saying how age has been catching up on me :)

First things first: before I post new entries, I have to do some sort of cleaning up to this long-neglected home.

Some changes I have planned/thought about:
- No more shoutbox.
Any greetings should be directed to comment section.

- Catching up with the latest features on Blogger dashboard.
This will take some time.

- Keeping the same template, or more or less the same color scheme with a new template, while accommodating the changes.
Whew.

And, since blogwalking has been considered a thing of the past, I hope any wanderers out there who stumble or come across unintentionally to this blog would be kind enough to offer me advise or tips-and-tricks in re-designing blog.

Anyone who offer me Viagra or 1 billion Nigerian dollars is also welcome to my grandma's dinner. She's been dead for decades.

Hope to see some familiar names, be them the returning or the new ones.

Love you all!


Nauval.

PS: In the meantime, enjoy one of my favorite songs sung by one of the greatest legendary singers ever graced the Earth. Been stored long enough in my Favorites tab on Youtube, little did I realize that the title alone reflects the on-and-off pause of the page.

the key is 'assumption'

i thought, i knew what i had to do.
i thought, since i've been here before, i knew what would lie ahead.
i thought, everything would repeat.
i thought, everything worked out fine.
i thought, i could manage everything.

but i kept saying "i thought", because the idea stayed on this tiny little brain of mine.

and for once, i've never been this greatly worried before.

pray us luck.
wish us well.

for once, the end seems terrifyingly distant.

i am scared :(

Somewhere.

Nothing quite prepares you of feelings experienced in every trip, no mater howw often you've taken similar trips before. Each trip is something new, and each trip has its own memory one should not attempt to compare.

But have you taken a trip where your imagination is best left intact, even after you've completed a trip?

Have you ever taken a trip where your mind still lingers, playing what-if situation even after a stamp in your passport states that you have departed the place?

Have you ever taken a trip where your feet rule over your conscience?

Have you ever taken a trip where you busily arrange your feeling all the time?

Have you ever taken a trip where a lof of thinking dominates your days?

I don't know if I have done all of the above, actually. But if those describe my present state of mind, then let's just be it.



















And yes, maybe, some wishful thinking is best left intact or untouched.


"... and i know / when i am going / no more doubt / no more fear / i've found my way / so let's leave / today / anywhere / change me / change me / change me / once again ... " (nina simone - just in time - ost. before sunset)

How do we react to changes that we undertake?

There are many ways, and all of them lead into two big classification: either we accept them, or we reject them.

Looking back, I can say that I have no regret at all.

Old habits die hard.

When I decided to take up the job offer from JiFFEst last year, little did I know that one of the very dearly parts of me would be neglected. That part is what we are reading right now: my online version of me, aka my blog.

Of course, I couldn’t be happier to see myself being in a field of my lifelong passion, i.e. film. Ah, yes. The joy of immersing oneself to the celluloid dream, the fun in relating ourselves to a better celluloid character, and the excitement to fill this space with more and more words.

Or not?

Behind the white screen and the DVD eject button, beyond the line-up of films in papers and magazines, a hard work awaited. So hard that it left me close to no time to prepare. After all, what’s to prepare? No guidance or clues from the previous year’s works on how to do what I was supposed to do. No templates or any form of blue-prints of how I should assemble everything into one. It was like being sent to a jungle when you wore your most comfortable Prada, without having paraffin in your Samsonite backpack.



Luckily, the jungle wasn’t that wild. At least how I looked back at it now. It just took me some days, make that weeks, to stay up until 5 or 6 am, and going back to the office at around 11 am. Also some weekends to go by, since one of my friends reminded me that the day was Saturday at 11 pm when we had our online chat.

Yet, I enjoyed the process. I don’t know if you, my friend, or anyone understood how I felt at that time. Yes, it was tiring, and as much as I hate to do, there were times when I had this urge of consuming bottled Vitamin-C pills, something I had secretly detested. But I found a great joy of reading my research materials, choosing the right stills for whoever or whatever media needed them, and writing whatever kind of writing under the sun about them. Talk about the success of working under pressure, eh?

However, happiness comes with a sacrifice. Cliché it may sound, but honestly, somehow I couldn’t share those moments with this blog. It could be because I chose to publish my write-ups in a printed media, or maybe because I began to lose interest in writing here. As simple as the latter or as slightly complicated as the former, they lead me thinking as I am typing this write-up: I wouldn’t be here without this blog.

I made this blog when I found myself at dead-end with my previous jobs. Seriously, if I had anything to regret, it is definitely for not having any guts to leave those jobs any soon. So, as a solace during the dreadful and overloaded working hours, I decided to make myself a blog, where I could write about whatever I wanted. Especially about films. I had had locked my desire to comment about films for a terribly long time. Whatever they were about films I had watched, or any news on films I had found interesting, I just couldn’t resist the urge anymore. You see, I was living with inner conflicts all those years. Thinking about films inside, but responding to angry customers on the outside.



This blog was my daily oasis then. Everyday, I couldn’t wait to write. Make awards prediction, write reviews in pretty horrible grammar. Still until now, though! Hahaha!

Well, they call it ‘bad memories are the one that you can laugh at’. Of course, these memories are the ones that tickle us most to revisit.

So, it might be a revisit, or it might be a permanent affair. Whatever it is, I just want to say that one shall not be away from anything they love most. Anything that brings them to life, anything that they see themselves in.

Those meaningful things are our habits. The habits that drive us to become who we really are.

For me? Let’s just say that what you read here is what I am.

Old habits die hard.

And so did the flood apparently. :)

something happened and another thing happens.

in any way, what happened to me a year ago is worth celebrating, no matter what kind of celebration it may be.

and my! it's been a year :)


http://nauval.blogspot.com/2005/12/losing-few-gaining-many.html

(at least) for now.

the reason why the blog has been deserted for centuries.

the reason why my writing skill has, somehow, been shifted to another kind.

the reason why my life has been turning upside down.



but at least, this is what matters for now.

oooohhh, this is really interesting.

and if you think that the most interesting part stops at the title above, you're right. stop looking at the entry below. i mean it.

oh well. i should've known that you're easily tempted.

ok, here goes:

Four jobs I've had:
1. A clown.
2. A waiter.
3. A tour-guide.
4. A salesman.

Four movies I could watch over and over:
1. Same Time, Next Year.
2. Before Sunset.
3. 84 Charing Cross Road.
4. His Girl Friday.
5. Radio Days.
6. Music Box.
7. Kejarlah Daku Kau Kutangkap.
8. Hiroshima, Mon Armour.
9. Scenes From A Marriage.
(i'm sorry, i can't resist.)

Four places I have lived in:
1. Malang.
2. Solo.
3. Singapore.
4. Jakarta.

Four TV shows I love or loved:
1. Inside The Actor's Studio.
2. Asari-Chan.
3. Losmen.
4. Lenong Rumpi.

Four places I have been on vacation:
1. Bangkok.
2. Bali.
3. Bandung.
4. Bandar Seri Begawan.(don't laugh. ok, you may now.)

Four favorite dishes:
1. Rujak Cingur. (any souls out there care to translate?)
2. Nasi Pecel. (gosh, this is getting difficult!)
3. Gado-gado. (look, "mixed vegetables" won't do any justice!)
4. Chicken Satay. (finally! whew!)

Four websites I visit daily :
1. This.
2. That.
3. My Holy Grail.
4. My Precious.

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Holland V..
2. Fong Seng.
3. Spize.
4. Esplanade Library.

Four bloggers I'm tagging:
1. Dody. (he responds.)
2. Avin. (he replies.)
3. Ite'. (she's a wannabe.)
4. Anoe. (she's a waitress.)

Well, technically she was, but psychologically, she is. Sort of.

And I thank this beautiful blog ... ger for such an inspiring relief to my heavily sedated mental state at the time of posting.

Oh, I see two elephants now.

on walkings.

Around two years ago, back in my comfort zone, I often took a walk on Sunday mornings with my then housemate, Acay. Much to his disagreement that we should jog instead of walk, (in addition to waking up at 6 am on Sunday mornings!), we could not deny that those walks proved to be something of an escape from our daily routines spent at our workplaces, surrounded by static cubicles and robotic tones of behaviors.



It was a perfect escape as we chose the right path to walk. And I don’t bother to put the words “most of the time”, because as far as I can recall, we always walk on the perfect tracks.
Those tracks belong to green grass of open fields lying right in front of us, amidst the breezy winds as whispered by old trees of Portsdown area. Often, there may not be gigantic branches of leaves, but large houses with impossibly spacious yards, where we see ourselves rolling while giggling, recalling the long-gone joyous childhood. Or maybe there were only small houses, and not flats, but they have sunflowers arranged to the nines, and kids across neighborhoods calling and shouting in jovial moods to each other.



Yes, the scenery of natural beauty unlikely found in a country often known for its tedious and boring skyscrapers. A perfect escapade on weekly basis within walking distances. And by now, the vivid greatness has become one perfect memory.



As I decided to bid a temporary goodbye to my comfort zone, and settling in my supposedly-home-country, I have never realized the great impact of the memory. As much as I dismiss the zone, I couldn’t help recalling the fresh air we breathe there, or even barking dogs surrounding me, prompting me to always take cautious moves whenever I see these inhumanely-proclaimed men’s-best-friends. Until now.



And just now, those memories evoked me again, with a different backdrop.
Here I am, in this chaotic city, staying in a walk-up flat right in the heart of the city. What started as simply trying to buy today’s paper, I found myself walking towards a street filled with shops, eating places, traffic jams, bakeries selling breads with jams, video rentals, and air pollution. Yet, I kept walking, and as I looked above, there it was. A few dried branches waiting for rains to drop by.

Hardly any green leaves, hardly any friendly people apart from aggressive drivers, hardly any grass apart from asphalt.



But I’m sure I’ll miss what I’m having now in near future, as much I miss those walks two years ago. When I part with these densed atmosphere, I will long for, miss, and eventually, cherish the moments.

The assurance is, the memory lingers on. I keep on walking.



ps: the images were taken during actual jogs ... eerr ... walks (according to Cay, again! hahahaha!) on those lushful areas.

a cynical place.

In case any of us has been zoned out or transported to another planet for the past century or two, here’s the latest development from the planet earth:

The cities we live in have somewhat become dangerously some cynical places to breathe in.

In case any of us has not been out of our homes in the past few weeks, this is a good time to start enjoying the fresh outdoor air filled with carbon-monoxide-what-have-you. But now, the enjoyment comes with a price.

As I decided to spend the beginning of the week in my other home in a suburban area, I couldn’t help but holding on to my bag tight, and spare the rest of my fingers to “cover” my pocket. Of course, once in a while, I let some of the fingers go to check other “areas”, to make sure that no strangers would dare to grab, touch or even look at. After all, I’m in a public transportation, not a public bathhouse. Well, not even the latter place exists here.



The protection does not stop there. During the journey, one can only wish to have another set of eyes at the back of the head, to make sure that no pickpockets around. Even when they are actually not around (God knows why they’re not working today), we can’t help shaking off the thought that they might be around at any given time.

Thus, when the journey was about to end, when an automated saying of “Thank you” was uttered while we gave out coins and scrampled notes, who wouldn’t freeze to stop when a becak driver said:

“Allow me to excuse myself, bang.”?

There, the moment of awkwardness, which soon only followed with a hesitant look and reply shown with a half-hearted nod. Worse, soon we checked our bags, wallets, purses, phones, to make sure everything is still intact. Everything’s perfectly in place, and he is giving his perfect smile. A very sincere smile.



We smile back for sure, but is it also sincere? Maybe we smirk, not smile, because our minds still go to our belongings. Maybe we smile, not smirk, because inside, we laugh at ourselves for getting so cynical to the extent that we have gone past a common decency to be polite. As simple as that.

What’s not simple is, obviously, to change. And I am not in any way to judge, nor to ask any of us to change. Anyone who’s seen me in real life will perfectly be aware of my irritated and annoyed look, which somehow has become my permanent fixture, unknowingly.
See? The result of being cynical is this barrier to prevent us from being liked at. Or at least, being the one to be looked at the second time around.

Alas, the options are the options. They are there to choose.

But pardon me for being cynical again, what’s the point of choosing? It’s life, enjoy it!



Oh. Really?

morning!

What’s your definition of “a morning person”?

Or what comes to your mind when you hear something like “a morning person”?

My friends used to call me as “a morning person”, because I liked setting up breakfast meetings with them. “Let’s meet over breakfast at Holland Village”, and I wouldn’t settle for anyone coming above 11 am. Why? Because at most eating places, the breakfast hour would finish by then. And as Aki, my friend, said, “There’s no better place to have breakfast than Coffee Bean. Free flow of coffee and tea until 11 am!”.



Exactly. For a long time, coffee has been associated as an accompaniment of morning, or everything morning-related. We come to our workplaces in the morning, and guess what’s the most popular destination after gents/ladies? It’s none other than pantry. I remember when I worked in an office before, just right after I put my bag on my cubicle and logged my phone and computer in, immediately I rushed down to pantry and made myself my favorite breakfast: a cup of cereal, with a dash of coffee on it. Sounds, well, I wouldn’t put delicious as the correct term for it, but let’s just say it’s more than fulfilling.

In fact, I begin to wonder from my experience above. Did I become “a morning person” because in any way, I would have to wake up in the morning to rush off to work? Five days a week, we drag our bodies from bed to shower, and we take whatever shirts and pants available from the rack, and still half-asleep, we walk down the road, hurriedly catch a bus or a cab.

The latter proves to be more expensive than the former of course, and is it that expensive to become “a morning person”?

Well, in a way, maybe. In another way, it’s not necessarily so.



Whereas the weekdays prove to be like a guirella-training, the weekends prove otherwise. Sunday morning, we do our laundries, we have that breakfast-with-friends sessions, we grab newspapers, circling sale offerings or available apartments, and suddenly the days look bright ahead. Saturday morning, we take a long walk down to a complex of beautiful houses or settling for a park, another breakfast-with-friends, or your jogging partner, storm off to wet markets for worth-bargaining grocery items, cleaning up your pads, and the rest of the day will be a good day for you to catch up with the latest films in town.

Believe me, I had those. Once, I felt in contentment having all of what I just wrote.

But can one stop being “a morning person”?

Hardly.

Even the luxuries are gone, there can’t be any ways to resist the temptation of looking at yourself in the mirror at not more than 8 am, and freaking out to see your pimples are getting bigger. The first splash of water in your face that morning, the first pour of water in the kettle to boil some hot water, and of course, the first tune you hear in the morning.



So, here I am, penning down my thoughts and my wish to always become “a morning person”, right next to my first cup of coffee, my first piece of writing, and my first song heard today: Carnival by The Cardigans.

How can you say “no” to that?

Now wake up, you are “a morning person”.

a miraculous relief.

just when we thought that we had to surrender our friends, our lovers, our parents, our brothers, our sisters, being succumbed to a mindless game of twenty-two guys chasing one balls and throw it away.

just when we thought that the loud of cheers and jeers from overcrowded cafes start irking us most.

just when we thought we had it all.

here's something to consider:

a cab driver did not have any idea how the match of england vs. portugal went on.

in other words, and as proven with a glee on his face, he did not follow that particular football event i didn't even bother to mention the name!

thank you so much. you made my lonely day and night altogether. thank you.

ps: in case you read this and wondered why i didn't give you a big tip, well, didn't you see how the traffic was like?!

What's A Marriage To You?

from a conversation with two women in their mid-20's who soon are going to attend another friend's lavish wedding, and all of them happen to be my dear darling friends, it is decided that:

a marriage is a state of mind.

regardless your age, your mind-blowing independence, your financial security, or your maniacal family intrusion, you'll never be able to force a marriage into you, unless your mind says "i do."

wholeheartedly.

peer pressure? now that's something.

what's your take?

a few certain characters.

In writing a screenplay, a screenwriter is constantly told by his or her own consciousness to define characters on the written screenplay through their actions. How one behaves or reacts to situations surrounding them truly reflect their truest characters in real life.

Point taken.

Yet, knowing that bad screenplays come out more often than the good ones, what we often see on both big and small screens are passive (main) characters who do not create anything to happen in their lives. In screenplay-writing terms, this kind of unfortunate mishap is better known as “off-the-page”. The passive characters are the kinds that seem to stand or look still, and having their presence reduced to minimum throughout the storylines, usually we hardly relate to them, making it hard to create sensory connections, be it empathy or hatred.

Such a numb experience, leaving a devastating effect in a long run.

Why these passive characters exist? A simple and quick answer to this question would be to provide a counterbalance for the active ones, in order to achieve that stated ‘status’. By any means, the kind of mindless response is perfectly fine. However, if we are willing to dig deeper, we might be able to retrieve many more possibilites why they have to exist. Or rather, we might want to derive any possible causes why they exist on the first place.

Let’s see.



Passive characters wait for some things to happen. As stated above, they’d rather wait than create. They believe that they will cause things to happen around them through their minimum act of doings. Of course, the means to achieve whatever intentions they have might be some intangible tools we are hardly aware of. Mantra, prayers, these kind of things have greater chances to be perfectly abused of from their holy initial usage.’

If waiting is not vivid enough in depicting the characters, perhaps it is best to say as well that the passive creatures carry too much pride within themselves. So much so with this pride emblem applied inside their heads and minds, this elite club will remain elite eternally, because they will go to the distance in preserving the pride. Stooping low to get to the dirty core of life is strictly a no-no option, because pride, or often disguised with another word called ‘dignity’, is something too fragile to gamble.

In other words, that particular famous Jane Austen’s novel should be re-titled as Pride and Patience, and what we get to see is a novel resembling the line shown in a monitor next to a dead patient. Straight. Linear. Freakingly straight line with no dynamic movement.



Thus, no matter how we dress up these characters, they are bound not to create any spark within us to notice. They choose to hide themselves under the thick particle of dust, while looking at better things ahead from a faraway place, and binoculars are not a must option in this session.
And they will keep thinking:

“Maybe it’s better to stay this way. Maybe this is the good thing to come. Maybe, I have become way too comfortable in this.”

Maybe. But at the moment, my question to myself on being the kind of people I’ve uttered for the previous 500 words so far is:

“Have you been right all along, that some people are best left to be appreciators rather tan doers, because they’ll never be good in doing what passionate them most?”

I can’t face the answer.

the risk of addiction.

so i am addicted to this absence,
which drives me further to making numerous attempts of earning a penny or two maybe,
and not penning my own journal for free.

so i am addicted to the nights,
the companion of flesh and snack,
of two gay guys, one fag hag, and one helluva drinker,
of green teas, or normal ones in alternate.

so i am addicted to the city,
the coffee meets the riots,
leaving me stuck in the unlikely space,
of yuppies, of tough guards, of breezing condensed air.

so i am addicted to you,
the lover of my life,
the hairy bear of my life,
the shivering thoughts sending the hair at the back of my neck rising.

so i am addicted to this life,
of uncertainty, of impossible dream,
of unclear destination, of mindless people and their hopeless defense,
of ambiguity, and the likes of it.

so i am addicted to myself,
living the life i yet to lead.

where do i leave my heart?

for the past two weeks, i went back living the life i have been very familiar with. being in a comfort zone could not be more exhilarating than this, where people know you for who you really are, and you are free to roam around the city without worrying about what cannot be done to fill your time.

the friends remain the same, their dreams remain afar.

the temptation to go back is always there to lure you, and it cannot be any greater than this time around. after all, what's not to like about your own comfort zone?

actually, that's the key of treating this comfort zone. you hate it.

you loathe it by cursing it with the most comprehensive list of cursive words you can ever think of. you despise it by resisting that living in this zone would only drag you down. you hate it to death.

and by doing so, you keep on living nicely and comfortably till you love it.
and that's the point where you realize you cannot live in any other places.

and you keep on complaining.

and i wish to quit that.

i just wish to live where i can be living.

sadly, it's not here.


------------

who are you? i am a writer.
what do you do? i write.
how do you live? i live.

one of the highlights

Your Birthdate: April 11

Spiritual and thoughtful, you tend to take a step back from the world. You're very sensitive to what's going on around you, yet you remain calm. Although you are brilliant, it may take you a while to find your niche. Your creativity is supreme, but it sometimes makes it hard for you to get things done. Your strength: Your inner peace Your weakness: You get stuck in the clouds Your power color: Emerald Your power symbol: Leaf Your power month: November

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

a forecast of a birthday.

i know i'm supposed to continue telling you all about my bali trip, but the past few days were quite busy days for me.
who says one can relax in a comfort zone?
but then again, as i'm turning 27 in less than 24 hours, i'd like to pen a few words to commemorate this special day.

commemorate?
i don't know if i'm entitled to apply such a big word to describe my life, but here goes.

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In the past, and until now, my dad has always stressed this point to me:

“No matter what you do, be responsible for it.”

Thus, he left me choosing what I wanted to become by enrolling myself in theatre and linguistic as my subjects during my hectic college days. He left me embarking on a corporate work-life, because he knew that soon enough, I got tired of it. He left me cooking on my own, because he knew that he could not eat what the food I made, somehow against his metabolism.

And he left me living the life I am doing now.

While like any common father-and-son relationships we hardly talk about our private life, we have one common faith to each other to keep the trust of being responsible in everything.

Of course, that includes love department.

After more than three decades of marriage, my mum and dad retain their romance, which by now has blossomed into longevity. Sticking to each other for more than half of their lives, I could not stop wondering if it is the same feeling when they began falling in love in those heydays of early 70s, or the love has diverted them to the direction of responsibility.

I used to believe that there are things greater than love in the forte of relationship, one of them being respect. Respect our companion, but more importantly, respect myself as the carrier of consequences in choices. Thus, it leads me to the responsibility itself.

Now, in the passage of my life that soon reaching the number of 27, have I been responsible for what I’ve chosen?

I may need a generous help of other people to give an objective review for that. But what I know from what I’ve been through, I can’t be more comfortable with the life I’ve led so far.

For sure, it has never been easy with the ups and downs, more with my recent decision to leave my comfort zone, and start a new life in what seemingly a chaotic place. The struggle to get through the harshness of life on a daily basis seems to be getting harder only to realize that no matter who I am with, the journey has to be taken all alone.

And losing my own identity to be replaced with being known as somebody’s friend, somebody’s boyfriend, almost takes the meaning of ‘whoring’ to a literal level.

Yet, at the end of the day, I can always look at them with laughter of relief, gladness and other jovial expression to which I can’t always describe vividly. I can always kiss my pillow, sometimes with a teardrop or two, while switching on my laptop to play some meaningful tunes. I can always send an email or two, blurting out whatever things I feel like telling to my friends. They are never away.

A cup of coffee or two, an hour or five, a lifetime unlike any other.

Here’s to my solemn birthday tomorrow.

That, just like any relationships, no birthdays would ever be so perfect. That no matter what, I guess my ultimate birthday wish will never get fulfilled.

That I’ve gotta be more than ready to be responsible of what I choose to be in life, and whom I choose to be with.

Of course, I always have the right to choose who and who I will have my birthday dinner with this year.
I doubt if they are my blog readers, hahaha!

Cheers!

Nauval.

pre-bali trip: it's all about the style

the journey had started a day earlier actually, right at the heart of the chaotic city, and it's none other than ... plaza indonesia!



being cosmopolitan people who refuse to downgrade the class by shopping at middle-class supermarket with fake french names like carrefour, why didn't we just settle to the privilege nearby? after all, we stayed in pejompongan, and this made our whole preparation easier by acting posh while shopping in such a luxurious place.

there it went, filling our bags with staple of food that included two loafes of bread, jams, crackers, snack, and complete the stylish shopping with snatching a pair of sunglasses with white frames. it is really a smaller version of the one audrey hepburn wearing in 'how to steal a million'! finally my goddess, we share something in common, after years of worshipping you.



and i'm sure, audrey, whenever you travelled during the heydays of hollywood, you always had it with you your fabulous collection of clothes, hats, bags, scarfs, the whole closet of yours. while we are not in the same department, i'll just settle with bringing my precious whitey, my tiny weeny silvery, and the connector to the world.

i was set, nyottie was set, we were all set!



and this time, bali would never be the same.