Trash Bin

Pagi-pagi kok udah nyampah…

Banyak sekali sampah pagi ini. Untunglah dari kemarin mental sudah siap, jadi meski banyak sampah, hati tidak marah. Ditanggapi dengan ketawa aja.

Pertama-tama, sebenernya sampah ini sudah diawali sejak Sabtu kemarin, ketika seorang teman merefer saya ke berita sindir-sindiran yang dilakukan Megawati dan SBY, soal poco-poco dan undur-undur (cari di detik.com deh, saya males bikin linknya). Wah, lucu tenan… Tapi yang tidak lucu, ketika ada pihak ketiga yang mendadak muncul dengan bendera putih dan higher moral ground, menegur kedua belah pihak agar bersikap pantas… nah, yang begini ini adalah yang sok jadi "pahlawan", mengail di air keruh.

Sampah kedua, Senin pagi buka email, ada forwardan dari teman saya, isinya kutipan-kutipan "artis" baru, Cinta Laura (hei, saya denger itu kamu tertawa), yang kalo menurut pelafalannya, Cincha Lawra… Sampah ini sampah yang lucu dan beneran membuat saya terpingkal-pingkal, jadi gak papa lah. Biarkan dia hidup. Beberapa kutipan itu bisa diulang-ulang kok, dengan gaya yang pas, untuk menghibur teman-teman…

Sampah ketiga, berita tentang DPR yang akan merenovasi kantor dan mengubahnya menjadi menara ala Petronas, yang menurut sumber di gedung rakyat itu, menelan anggaran lebih dari satu triliun rupiah. Gedung ini dilengkapi fasilitas modern, komputer dan internet, perpustakaan komplet. Selain itu, demi kenyamanan, juga disediakan ruangan seluas 10X10 meter untuk masing-masing anggota dewan, supaya tidak repot mencari hotel, karena di ruangan tersebut tersedia fasilitas sekelas hotel berbintang. Yang lebih penting lagi, akan ada ruangan khusus untuk DPR dan rakyat bertemu… Gedung rakyat yang (kini) dipagari (semakin) tinggi itu akan menjadi simbol kemakmuran rakyat Indonesia, katanya. Jadi perlulah anggaran sebesar itu.

Ha-ha-hah! Ini sampah yang paling lucu…

Saya jadi merasa nebeng tinggal di negara ini. Tokoh-tokoh politik yang saling sindir demi memenangkan suara, wakil-wakil rakyat yang katanya mengemban amanat rakyat, semuanya sama sekali lepas dari sasaran mereka yang sebenarnya: RAKYAT. Kenapa merasa nebeng? Lha saya yang sebenarnya masuk golongan rakyat, yang punya hak suara dan diwakili di gedung DPR itu, cuma kerja untuk sesuap pasta dan koleksi sepatu (:D) dan sama sekali gak digubris sama mereka.

Okelah, gak adil kalau contohnya saya. Rakyat yang mengibakan itu, yang katanya mau disejahterakan itu, gak digubris juga kok sama para politikus. Kesejahteraan memang tidak ada hubungannya sama politik. Rakyat tidak ada hubungannya sama politik. Di politik, bahkan jargonnya beda: konstituen. Urusannya dengan KTP, bukan dengan rakyat Indonesia yang berdarah merah.

Tapi begitulah sampah. Dan saya sudah mendaur ulang sampah-sampah ini dengan mengubahnya menjadi energi untuk menulis. Dan tetap bekerja. Dan tetap berdoa.

Sudah dulu ya, Cincha sudah too tired talking about craps… Cincha mau belajar bahasa Indonesia saja di Australia…

Romantically Tragic

Stacey Kent. I wouldn’t call her a jazz musician/vocalist. Jazzy, perhaps, or pop-jazz, some might call it. But nonetheless her jazzy voice is quiet and subtle, a little slippery, as if she wasn’t sure she can reach higher notes, and we braced ourselves too… and then she galloped with beauty.

I love this review about her on New York Times:

The least ornate of pop-jazz singers, Ms. Kent pounces on lyrics with a no-nonsense directness. Emotions are muted but not stifled. High drama is absent.

Recently I love repeating one song in particular, from album Breakfast On the Morning Tram. Here it is:

So Romantic

You always had a taste for those movies
Like Casablanca and Song o’ My Heart
Where a complicated world
Or the call of adventure
Forces true lovers to part
When the hero turns his back so stoically
On all the happiness they might have had

You always considered it
So romantic
But I just considered it sad

It was so like you to choose such a moment
The sun setting over the square
A pavement cafe, the local children at play
The sound of an accordion somewhere
You suddenly said Fate was pulling us apart
Then you shrugged, like there was nothing more to add

I suppose you considered that
So romantic
Well, I just considered it sad

Perhaps you’re living in America now
Perhaps you’re in Timbuktu
A small part of me, even after this time
Has never stopped waiting for you
To live in this state of hoping
When hoping seems so utterly mad
I can’t help but consider that so romantic
Though I know I should consider it sad

The I is a quarter of me, and the You is another quarter. Or it used to be that way. Because things are different now, and I don’t want to be awfully tragic anymore; it’s exhausting. Nevertheless, when I first really listened to the lyrics, I remember thinking, Well, that’s just something familiar.

Anyway, it’s a sad song. And beautiful. Beautifully sad. Oh, and by the way, do you know the lyrics were written by Kazuo Ishiguro? Yeah.

With every goodbye, you learn.

After a while, you learn the subtle difference

between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

and you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

and company doesn’t mean security,

and you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

and presents aren’t promises,

and you begin to accept your defeats

with your head up and your eyes open,

with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,

and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden

and decorate your own soul,

instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure,

that you really are strong

and you really do have worth.

And you learn

and learn…

With every goodbye, you learn.

Veronica A. Shoffstall

Feels like I’m losing you all over again, Bapak.

Love is.

Love, for whatever reason, is inexplicable. Generations of men, from kings to plebeians, from poets to peasants, had tried to define what love is, and encountered only confusions, and the fact that love can only be sensed—like a very basic instinct—not defined and confined in words of psychology, philosophy, or math rules.

Ezra Pound, one of those poets, did not try to do that. But he found love, or courage—in the sense that it comes from love—, or whatever term he chose, instilled in the life of his mistress, Olga Rudge. I have read and love The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt. Beside his talents that Berendt had poured into the book, he also had captured the love story between the poet and his mistress of 50 years, and devoted a chapter, "The Last Canto", for them.

Ezra had been imprisoned and put away in an asylum for criminally insane, and yet Olga stood by him and encouraged others writers to mount a petition for his release. After twelve years he was released, lived with his wife and children, but in 1962, "depressed and ill, Pound chose to put himself in Olga’s hands". And so they had lived until the day he died in The Hidden Nest, Olga’s little house in Dorsoduro, Venezia. Olga outlived him by 24 years, in which she had become so forgetful that Ezra’s papers finally ended up in Yale. She continued to stay in Venezia, and then finally passed away at the age of 101 in their daughter’s house.

Ezra’s love for his beloved Olga was evident in his request to include a verse at the end of his epic work, The Cantos.

That her acts

Olga’s acts

of beauty

be remembered.

Her name was Courage

& is written Olga

Kings and plebians, poets and peasants. If that wasn’t love, then what is?

Sexy Playlist: Update

Ahem.

Yes, there was a bottle of pinot noir. But we opted for a chardonnay instead. There was no luring, because you needn’t lure the willing. And that playlist… let’s just say it worked darn well. And then he added a playlist of his own.

Can’t wipe this big grin off of my face. Sorry guys.

Sexy Playlist

Hmm. It’s been awhile since that last posting about Harry Potter leakage. I’ve read it, by the way, and it was quite good, with a satisfying ending, although Year 5 is still my favorite. And… a lot, I mean A LOT, had happened since then. Since my last post, mind you, not since Year 5.

I’m not gonna indulge myself and do a monologue about it, don’t worry. I’m sure a handful of you have heard enough. (You can have your retching fit later, guys. Late…er.)

I just wanna share my playlist, my special playlist #1, the one I want to have at the right timing. What "timing"? you might ask. Well, let’s just say that if a guy wanted to cook for me in his place and serve a bottle of nice pinot noir, and lure me to sofa area afterwards, this is what I want to hear softly on the background.

Here you go:

• Embraceable You - Chet Baker
• My One and Only Love - Chris Botti feat. Paula Cole
• What a Difference a Day Makes - Renee Olstead
• By Your Side - Sade
• I’ve Got a Crush on You - Stacey Kent
• Time After Time - Chet Baker
• Someone to Watch Over Me - Renee Olstead (or anyone for that matter)
• Everytime We Say Goodbye - Julie London
• I’ll Be Seeing You - Chris Botti
• They Say It’s Wonderful - Stacey Kent
• Lovers Rock - Sade
• Desafinado - Lisa Ono
• How Love Should Be - Chris Botti feat. Paula Cole
• Come Rain or Come Shine - Chet Baker
• Sunday Kind of Love - Renee Olstead
• Mensagem De Amor - Lucas Santtana
• There’s A Lull in My Life - Chet Baker
• Fools Rush In - Stacey Kent

Oh… I think you’ve got the point. It’s overkill, I admit. But, hey, what can I say, I’m a hopeless romantic.

(And for the rest of you, you can have your retching fit right now.)

Potter Books Leaked

Looks like some hundreds people had already devoured their 7th Potter book. Read it here, in Publishers Weekly.

Sad. I feel for Scholastic. And J.K.

Michiko Read The 7th Potter Book

At July 19, 2007, two days before the official release date of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Michiko Kakutani had already bought, read, and reviewed the book in The New York Times. This seventh and last installment is awaited unpatiently by fans all over the world. This will also bring about the closure of the ten-year saga, marks the end of it all, as J.K. Rowling is definite about not writing another Potter book.

From what I read, The Boy Who Lived will probably survive the showdown with He Who Must Not Be Named, but he will surely lose many of his compatriots. I’m sure many readers who had shedded tears when Harry lost Sirius in Book 5, will again, and not just once, reach out for a box of Kleenex. It’s either Ron or Hermione, or both, or will Ginny have her chance in love again. (I privately root for Ginny, the-ugly-duckling-turn-red-head-hottie.) And of course, the biggest mistery of them all: Is Snape bad or good?

I probably won’t have time to read it right away at July 21, 00:01 am, I rather enjoy the Indonesian translations. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime moment that I surely don’t want to miss.

Tak setiap orang…

Rupanya di malam hari, kesunyian membuat kita lebih peka. Tapi tak setiap orang, tidak juga aku, mampu menjadi penyair.

Itulah bedanya seniman dengan yang bukan seniman. Sesuatu yang biasa dan sehari-hari, di tangan dan otak seniman bisa menjadi indah, puitis, magis (walau tidak semua, tentunya).

Bapak yang mengatakan (dan menuliskan) kata-kata di atas memang benar sekali. Menurut saya sih, itu pun membuktikan bahwa dia lebih seniman daripada saya. Nyatanya dia bisa mengatakan sesuatu yang selama ini ada di kepala saya dalam wujud nyata, dengan cara yang indah pula.

I won’t tell you who he is. Bukunya terbit sebentar lagi. Bulan depan. But until then, saya terpaksa tidak mengatakannya. I would tell you, but then I have to kill you. Hey, I have a rep to protect.

Just Add Coffee

I am a sucker for breakfast. If I could have breakfast all day, I would. But then, there won’t be golden morning sunshine in the afternoon. And nothing beats the early morning silence, especially on Sundays. When I have to choose between staying in bed on an early Sunday morning or immediately getting up to brew my first coffee of the day, I almost always choose the latter. And again.

At home, it could be anything I’ve got in the fridge. Fry up is my favorite. (No surprise there, huh, when my YM status sometimes screams, "Gorengan!") Bacon, sausage, and some tomatoes with herbs. Or just two slices of toast with butter when I’m feeling frugal. I’ve cut back on egg consumptions, but when I’m so inclined, I go to Coffee Bean for some Eggs Benedict or to Coffee Club for some French toast. I love strawberries with plain yoghurt or banana-strawberry smoothies, but that gluggy concoction I usually reserve for work days.

On top of it all, I just need a decent cup of coffee. I’m still hankering for a good, satisfying black coffee every morning to usher me into the day, but I have to settle with what I have in hand. Kopi tubruk made with Bakoel Koffie’s Heritage blend, or Bandung’s Aroma (which reminds me, it’s been awhile since I had my last cup of Aroma kopi tubruk). And, if the weekend looms, a good read or sitting peacefully in front of my laptop. And that still, hushed silence. Aaah.

When on vacations, I used to drag my friends for breakfast. They moaned and struggled to stay in bed, but I persisted. Except the morning after the night, of course, when we had to deal with hangovers. After all, I do have heart.

When I’m traveling to Italia, oh, that’s got to be my favorite. The coffee bars are warm and intimate, the aroma of freshly baked brioche—that’s sweet pastry to you—fills your nostrils, and above it all, the coffee. Nothing beats Italian espresso. Andrea Illy—as in Illy Coffee—said, "In the world there are espresso drinkers and there are other people. In Italy, we are espresso drinkers. Americans are the other people."

Guess which one I am.

There are some places I’d love to go for breakfast, like Bills in Sydney, Australia, because I read in Gourmet, they have what they call golden ricotta hotcakes with honeycomb butter and banana. (I’m loving the pictures. Oh, I wish.) And I won’t mind spending my morning with some Eggs Benedict at Lake House in Melbourne. And my eyes are still riveted whenever I read that some cafes or restaurants in Jakarta “opens daily for breakfast, 7am till noon” or “breakfast all day” or “Sunday brunch”.

It could be one of those places, but it could be just a plate of telur ceplok and nasi putih panas at your mom’s. It could be Sunday brunch with flowing champagne at a fancy hotel restaurant, or it could be just a piece of baguette with butter and a cup of yoghurt at your sister’s apartment in Paris. It could be just about anywhere.

Just add coffee.