Monday, 28 March 2011


I am not so pretentious wanting to be a missionary, wandering around with the purpose of converting others into my beliefs, or finding disciples for my own philosophy. The best teacher is a student. And of all that I stand for, I value humbleness very much. Therefore I don’t judge, for right and wrong has never existed. Judgement is an illusion, a sand castle vested on the foundations of the views of those who grant themselves the power to judge. That’s why I shy away from gossip too, for its only merit is that it reveals more about the person talking, than about the person who’s talked about. I have no idols, but still I admire others. For, strangely enough, sometimes it’s harder to have faith in oneself, than to have trust in others. We may lack the confidence, the self-worth, the self-esteem, and we tend to look at an old image of ourselves, as if it were a framed picture on the wall. We thread on paths that we have walked upon before; we sing songs that we have sung, on and on. We believe that we are who others tell us to be. But pictures get dusty and it takes courage to look with sincerity into even our own eyes in the mirror. We blurt out the answers that we know, without realising that the question has changed. We find comfort in the clothes we have worn before, but overlook that a new fashion season made them outdated. It’s human to rely on a false sense of security that past patterns give. Think of a little boy who learns how to swim. He’s actually long able to swim already before he finally dares to release the grip on the swim board. There’s no need to be afraid of the depth of the water. We just stay adrift, whether there’s one meter or one hundred meter of water below our floating body. History may tell us where we come from, but it doesn’t tell us where we going. A compass always points to the north, but yet we can swim into any direction. As long as you swim forward, you will get somewhere. Re-invent yourself and you will feel brand new.

Sunday, 27 March 2011

BON JOVI: "Bed Of Roses"

Love is a delicate red rose, with petals that unfold a myriad of mysteries. A few thorns may scare us off at first, but its innate beauty draws curious admiration and desire fills our nostrils and irises. It does take some bravery to reach out and grab its stem, to twist and turn it carefully between the fingers, close the eyes, lose control and inhale the intoxicating smell of freshness; then open the eyes again, and immerse into its sensuous splendour.

We have no choice but to accept that sometimes we don’t have a choice. Lighting doesn’t care whether it’s day or night, nor do the waves of the ocean stop rolling when the sun sets. Time does not rule all. Therefore love is art, for it can not be explained with sense or reason. It can not be clearly described why a rose is so intriguing and we’d all use different words to do so. It’s always interpreted differently than it was created or ever meant to be.

Love is the verb, the subject and the object of one and the same sentence. And we are all a writer. Yet grammar never matters; nor does vocabulary, punctuation, or style even. The only thing which is truly important is the intention, which is in the act, much more than in the word. We find love, then love finds us.

Monday, 7 March 2011

GLEN FREY: "The Heat Is On"

"Love is an electric blanket with somebody else in control of the switch."

(Cathy Carlyle)

Saturday, 5 March 2011

TOM JONES: "Sex Bomb"

“Do you have any laptop?” That’s what they ask when you are at the security screening of an airport nowadays, just before entering the gate where you will be boarding the plane. The same here in Jakarta. The girl in front of me answers negatively: “No, I don’t have a laptop”. But she definitely wears another, less sophisticated “top”…

In countries with a colder climate, passengers are requested to take off their jacket for security screening. In hot and humid Indonesia, they don’t need to ask that, since people seldom wear one. Orchards don’t have fence here, to put it with a plastic comparison. No wonder that the security officer can’t keep his eyes off her chest, where some overripe fruits scream for help, desperate for fresh air in their all too tight wrapping. Do some girls really think that they do nature a favour by using less fabric than what they actually need to cover up properly? And what’s his scrutiny for? Does he suspect that she’s smuggling silicone bags out of the country? He seems puzzled. Does he need to call the squat team to detonate these bombs? The only potentially hazardous items she’s carrying are clearly visible, but until further notice they are not on the list of items that are prohibited on board. And where to hide any other lethal item in this skimpy, flashy-pink dress of hers? The long heels of her shoes in even colour clearly do not help him to focus.

She walks through the metal detector. This must be his lucky day: the buzzer goes off. His female and male colleague who are monitoring the screen of the X-ray machine giggle like teenagers, and you don’t need to understand a single word of Bahasa to understand why all of a sudden they become so excited. In many airports, you have a male security officer to perform a body search on the male passengers and a female security officer to search the female passengers. But this country is known to be a very liberal society where they don’t bother so much about this kind of petty privacy considerations. Female emancipation and gender equality are no hollow words here: female passengers are treated in exactly the same manner like men...So the male officer starts doing what he’s supposed to do: he moves around her; touches her; he sniffles like a dog while wagging his security stick eagerly all over her body. Front and back, and vice-versa. Yet all good things come to an end. He has no choice but to tell her she can go in. She walks further, and he glances at his colleagues with a smile that tells it all.

Then it’s my turn. “Do you have any laptop?” Is this a trick question? Unlike my predecessor, I don’t have any impressive top. But he’s not going to stare at my lap, is he? I take my laptop out of my bag, put it through the X-ray machine and walk through the gate of the metal detector. This must be my unlucky day: the buzzer goes off. But no drooling on his part this time. He’s searching my body in a very efficient and definitely faster manner than the way he did with the previous passenger. And I can be mistaken, but I sincerely have the impression that my search is far less thorough also…

Friday, 4 March 2011

OLIVIA ONG: "I'll Move On"

At times, we feel too brave for this world. We laugh at its mockeries, swiftly jump over the muddy troughs in the road and don’t bother about the stains on our pants nor the soaking wet shoes. Showered by raindrops of glitz and glamour, we carry big sunglasses on our nose and plugs of music players in our ears. We walk with giant steps, and feel grand just by doing so.

But at times, we feel too small for this world too. We sulk and sob tearlessly, a tiny heap of human insecurity, sitting with shrugged shoulders near Atlas’ feet, unable to carry the weight of the globe on our own shoulders like he could.

Seeing is believing, they say, but perhaps you need to hear it too, before you become painfully aware that a fire had been sizzling inside all along. Words have the power of revelation, while silence feeds imagination. When you voice some-thing out loud, some-thing some-times becomes a reality, as if it were a mysterious, ancient formula spoken by a magician. A-bra-ca-da-bra...We can split-up words in as many syllables as we wish, albeit only to discover that there is much long’ing in long-distance, and little sing’ing in missing.