Minggu, Desember 27, 2015

the history of Melancholy


I measure every grief I meet,
with narrow-probing eyes,
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
~Emily Dickinson~

The Paris Wife by The Bookshop Band

Call me the queen of melancholy, but this song for me is by far the saddest song I have ever encountered. 

The Paris Wife by The Bookshop Band
inspired by the book "The Paris Wife" by Paula McLain

We fell in love and married
Moved to Paris
You’d be a writer and I’d be your ever lasting love.
Accordions and whores
Were to be our background score
I’d cut my hair and you’d grow yours.
We’d be the same guy you’d say
Just like the same guy you’d say
But then each day you’d disappear
Into your fierce world of words.

My Ernest and me, a young Miss Hemingway
My Ernest and me, a young Miss Hemingway
Red headed, wedded, waiting, steady and straight
You are the best parts of me he’d say.

And he was like an island where
The weather always changed
And I am a small boat tethered to his fate.
But I made the rope and tied a knot around the stake
And I threw the anchor overboard on our wedding day.
You’d be a writer and I’d be your ever lasting love x4

But as you grew, you grew away
And as you grew, you grew away
And the words were the waves
That wore against the stake
That I’d placed.
And by the end I was loosening the knot
I’d let my boat slip aside
Into still waters away from your tide
That continued to roll across the sea
I’d played my part
And so had she.

I wish I can claim myself to be a feminist, but I'm too much of a pessimist to see we (women) be able to grasp a masculinist dream as a "person". I don't even wanna start babbling about the concept of "the other" or  something like that. But hell, I too dream of being my own person. Not like how Woolf trying to get a room of her own, or how Kahlo struggling with the neglect of her s.o. But to be yourself fully. Without having to worry about how men should questioning your feminine value. Decadence? Perhaps I am a decadent one...

Senin, November 02, 2015

Kant After Duchamp

Currently reading Thierry de Duve's "Kant After Duchamp". It's a challenging book for sure, cause there are lots and lots of footnotes linked to many art philosophers' view which--in my opinion--hard to comprehend. But apart from it's challenging disposition, this book is also an enjoyable reading. I'm still in the first chapter, which giving the readers a very unique idea about how we can truly grasp what art is (ontologically, epistemologically, etc..), by placing them in a few interesting points of view. At first de Duve ask us to play pretend as a Martian (a martian ethnologist to be precise) on seeing what Art is. At this position you will have to see Art as opposed to other human properties, such as science, religion,or mysticism. Here we'll realize how Art could be a frustrating subject to be understand, especially seen from a distant party which is not implicated (forthrightly) into its practice. After being a Martian ethnologist, de Duve places us as an earthling (: a sociologist) who's implicated in his/her field of research. In doing so, he/she is bound to put a scientific/objective perspective on analyzing what Art is, but also involved in its practice and by doing so, is ofcourse would wondering about the teleological property of Art (and many other properties which ends up in its utility and meaning related to human life).

This perspective on seeing Art will evolved into a more involving position, and each time de Duve apparently wanted the readers to be gradually comprehend how Art had been employed in human culture. The title of the book itself is really an interesting one, for, as we all known already, that chronologically Duchamp comes after Kant. But I think de Duve is giving us clue that after Duchamp's significant gesture (placing the R. Mutt urinoir in the gallery as an artwork), Modern Art was characteristically acting out Kant's aesthetic judgement. I haven't got to the next chapter yet (and for sure haven't got to the best part yet). So I really can't say more. But from the very beginning I knew about this book, I know that it will be such a recommendation.

Planning on writing a serious review about this one later. I hope I could finally write something good to be submitted to a mainstream media (an art magazine or someshort)... although... this book was published in 1996 :D

Sabtu, Oktober 03, 2015

A mind boggling assessment of being a Muse (feminine muse, cause really how many male muse were there in the span of human history?)

I am in the verge of an emotional outburst caused by a simple song, sang by an indie UK band, The Bookshop Band. This emotional episode was instigate by the lyrics which follow the story of Hadley Hemmingway, the first wife of Ernest Hemmingway. It made me think a lot about the position of being a muse in someone's life, namely great names such as writers, artists, musicians, etc. I have been in awe numerous times when confronting men with great achievement and appealing persona. I believe, I've been a muse for them at some point of their life too. This very fact, coupled  with the realization of how a muse served for those guy, gave me shiver.

There are reasons why great men were never been good guys. And it's almost axiomatic that they are always jerks. I guess being great and famous boost up their ego which ended up giving them a sense of privilege to ask more to life. Don't get me wrong, I'm  not trying to negate their way of life, I feel that jerks deserved being jerks, because they work and bleed hard to get into their position. I mean I never find any lackadaisical dudes who ends up become a jerky winner--here I need to pinpoint that being jerky means an act as if a person can ask more and treat others as underlings... erm yeah something like that, more or less...

Then there's women, especially women in the contemporary culture, whereas their objectified position has been in a constant shift for many decades now, and the awareness of being her own subject has become more and more canonical in our era. But I can't help but realize that women just looove being objectified. Not objectified per se, but see it for your self hither and thither. I am sure that all women likes being wooed and positioned as a highlighted trophy by guys, especially those jerky guys who appears as great winners. I'm not an avid evolution theory defender (I don't like to add "theory" to this phrase actually), but yeah I believe that Darwin's view of evolution is truly a fact. And so I believe that women penchant to be objectified has something to do with the way mother nature breed us to be so, in order to preserve the existence of our species.

So back to the struggle I currently confront: I think most women, who at least understand the basic notion of feminism agenda, wrestles with this natural characteristic of being an object of desire for the counterpart sex. Especially when twinned with the realization that they also wanted to be under the spotlight. That they wanted to be the artist rather than the mere muse.

I enjoyed being around men with great minds and has established their achievements in their fields. On some occasion (not very often, mind you) I also enjoy being their muse. But after listening to how Hadley Hemmingway has lead her life. How she shifted from being an adored muse to be a forgotten wife... it really gave me shiver... I don't want to repeat the pattern: initiated as a sought to be trophy, but when they (the jerky men) grew tired of you, you ended up being torn down into a self-doubting rag-doll.

The game of love is a healthy-fun thing to be played, particularly with those jerky men--its a fine sport, really. But I guess you need to hold on tightly to your own self preservation. Never give all to those assholes. But I guess turning down an opportunity to experience an upbeat romance is not a wise thing to do too. If a woman is searching for a keeper, they need to find a nice-decent guy (however boring they might be :3).

But I for one, not wanting to be a person to be kept with.

Kamis, Juni 18, 2015

gaga waga nomer sekian

Blargh..it's been a while since my last post. Yeah I guess I'm writing my journal haphazardly, but what the heck, this is my blog, I'll write whenever and whatever I feel like writing about (dear mr smith I hope you're no longer sniffling through my stuff down here anymore :D)
This post falls to the category of pure gaga waga, cause I feel like writing something, but not in an optimum condition of having a deep thinking.
So, a while back, my niece send me a song, who she thought describes me perfectly. The song was a teenage-ish kind of song.  Upbeat, cheerful rhyme, and a very american-idolish vocal. The song "Keep your Head Up" was about the story of the singer, who struggles through his daily life, working hard and gaining bread-crumbed income to merely survive. It was endearing really, if my niece see me that way: a person who struggles with life. But on the other hand, the song made me realized, it's been more than a a decade since I left college.. erm let me phrase it again: it's been more than a decade since I dropped out of college. Yet, I'm still a nobody, wasting time to merely survive.
Being an anti-hero might be cool. But being aware of your pathetic-ness is totally a different thing. I almost fed up of making excuses for postponing working just a little bit harder. I even often frustrated with my self, when many times finding myself surrounded by underlings with lots of accomplishments. Being sulky won't take you anywhere, I know. But I just need to write this down, in hoping to find a working formula for this circular problems.Yeah..

Minggu, April 26, 2015

I guess this is the real buh bye, dear...

I'm putting a scrap of a history behind. Looking back, I found traces of my emotion along the way. I don't care if I am the greatest sap in the whole universe, or a bundle of emotional wreckage with a destructive inclination... I am glad though, to be able to feel intensely. This is about you dearest. I may never get through you. But I believe now, that life is not really a constant disappointment.  I'm opening new possibility now, new adventure, with someone I put my hope and joy upon...

Menyesapi aromamu
Mengejar bayanganmu
yang hanya terpeta di hypocampus mungilku..
tak hadir di kenyataan,
tak berada, tak padat, tak tercicip kelima indera
tak bertutur di ruang yang dibagi bersama..
hanya di jaringan kelabu,
memproyeksikan persepsi utuh
hasil rancanganku sendiri,
tak akan kubagi, tak mungkin tergelar di asumsi orang-orang,
terasing dalam keasyikan mengasihani diri ...
kukira yang kuinginkan jemari dan sensasi-sensasi baru,
yang kau bebankan padaku di waktu itu..
curang jika kau kira bisa kucerabut ingatan itu begitu saja..
ia terselip diam-diam di sudut kesadaranku
meranggas dalam sunyi
tumbuh dan berkembang memenuhi dinding persepsiku..
tak terdeteksi logika sederhana yang kuandalkan selama ini
tak termaknai kamus, buku-buku,
dan onggokan referensi membuta yang kuakui bertahun..
kaulah jaringan asing
yang menebar benih migrain kasat mata
untuk kelak, meletus dalam tawa
mengolok kendali diriku yang kian surut terdesak imajimu..
yang hadir kini
kusesapi aromanya
kukejar bayangannya..

“Sebuah harapan besar jatuh”

Untuk setiap rangkai kata yang kau ulas dalam kanvas bahasa
Aku tepekur, memandangku sendiri dalam kepedihanmu,
Kau indah dalam jenaka dan gempita kehidupan,
Dan kau lembayung senja dalam pahit dan pedih yang sering kita bagi bersama...
Aku mengenalmu hanya dalam pura-pura
Dan kuyakin kau pasti mengenalku dalam niscaya pandang...
Meski terpisah puluhan kitaran mentari
Terjauh juta jengkal jarak dan bahasa
Tapi kita berbagi dunia serupa, Emily
Kadang mirip gula-gula dengan langit warna vanilla
Namun sering mewujud raksasa
Rakus kala membaui jiwa-jiwa rapuh
Seperti kau dan aku
Menggulung bagai badai hitam menelan biru angkasa...
Dalam haru itu kau menemuiku
Membelai punggung rapuhku saaat kupunguti keping diri yang dihancur sang raksasa...
Kata-katamu candu untukku
Untuk membingkai dunia dengan makna
Pedih namun tak nyana indah
Untuk berani nyatakan,
bahwa arti hidup tak selalu kapas gula dengan gemilang harap masa kanak-kanak..

Aku mencintaimu, Emily Dickinson.

What is a heart made of?

it must be from a seed of dandelion
for it so light and soars vastly easy
Over the sky, crossing the wide blue ocean..
When you’re in love, in hope...

Or it must be from a very old wood,
Since it hardened sometimes,
Covering itself from harm and damage..
When you’re in pain, in hurt...

Or it must be from a very fragile glass
Because it breaks and shatters easily
Ruined into tiny pieces,
When you’re desolated, rejected...

And mine tonight
Is made of glass...

A mother is a breeze
In a quiet drowsy afternoon
Who put you into a deep peace
enfolds you into the warmest  promise of safety
and an assurance of fine days...
even as we steps into our own man
our own woman
in her absence,
the breeze is still there...

Chasing the dogstar,
In its majestic luminar...
Between grasses and dried bamboo bushes
You were there,
You are bright and brilliant
underneath the blackened misty sky...
while i am frail and dim and shy...
hiding beneath the southern horizon...
you are at the height i could never reach
gleaming  with pride and luminousity...
no matter how long i travelled
crossing the thunderous nebulla,
sailing the deep dark spaces,
you will always be

Night yield to a briliant morning,
As of redden dusk succumb to the dim nightfall...
It debarks, It embarks..
It leaves, it arrives
Parting never was a genuine valedictory
And never will the encounter  be a single experience
I will celebrate the happenstance
And commemorate all born within;
Joy, knowledge, wisdom, love, and pain...

 December 7th 2011  

“I am nobody,
Are you a nobody too?”
Thus reverberated through and through,
In mine and your history...
But all my fellows are nobodies,
so they claimed to be...
Though desperately subsist:
To be a somebody,
To desire, to hope, to love, to ache...
I gladly become a nobody, Emily
But life bid me not...

No one, no force, should render you into a nobody, lest nothing... 

“A wounded deer leaps highest,”
I crave it would be so,
For the gushes, twinges, and aches,
Pouring still and resurging...
But so I heard:
“Mirth is mail of anguish,
In which its cautious arm
Lest anybody spy the blood...”
 it is mere illusion,
To muddle trough the agony of lesions..
Or perhaps, it’s the gift of the absent gods,
To just the unjustly wiles...
I care to define no more...
Since I would leap highly and mightly
Not for the wound, gushes, and aches..
But for the space, stars, and pulsars...
12 May 2014