Okay I’m convinced.

When I have my own home, I want a guava tree and kids to clamber on to them.

The cutest peacefingered little thing, the boy who thinks Jakarta is no fun because it doesn’t have horses, the largely absent big sister, future heartbreaker and a girl so smart that kindergarten bores her.

He hobbled on his walking stick. She took his other free hand in her arms. They both waddled in the morning light, holding hands, pushing eighty years behind. He walked in silence and she twittered away. Over time their faces had sagged and swelled in the same places, making them look so much alike. It’s the cutest sight to see on a Thursday morning.

I don’t know if that is love that they both held in their hands. Something kept them together, be it her constant chatter or his silence to make room for them.

I guess forever looks something like a softly leathered hand on a Thursday morning.

A nameless face to think I see
To sit and watch the waves with me till they’re gone
A heart I’d swear I’d recognize is made out of my own devices
….Could I be wrong?

Just about the time the shadows call
I undress my mind and dare you to follow
Paint a portrait of my mystery
Only close my eyes and you are here with me
A nameless face to think I see
To sit and watch the waves with me till they’re gone
A heart I’d swear I’d recognize is made out of
My own devices….
Could I be wrong?

The time that I’ve taken
I pray is not wasted
Have I already tasted my piece of one sweet love?

Sleepless nights you creep inside of me
Paint your shadows on the breath that we share
You take more than just my sanity
You take my reason not to care.
No ordinary wings I’ll need
The sky itself will carry me back to you
The things I dream that I can do I’ll open up
The moon for you
Just come down soon

Savor the sorrow to soften the pain sip on
The southern rain
As I do, I don’t look don’t touch don’t do anything
But hope that there is a you.

The earth that is the space between,
I’d banish it from under me…to get to you.
Your unexpected love provides my solitary’s
Suicide…oh I wish I knew

The time that I’ve taken
I pray is not wasted
Have I already tasted my piece of one sweet love?
Ready and waiting for a heart worth the breaking
But I’d settle for an honest mistake in the name of
One sweet love.

- Sara Bareilles, One Sweet Love

I rant too much. Then I write it in the most confusing way possible. So I should write simply and happily and tell you a little about what goes on in my life.

I go to work and it is fun. The people are really strange. They all have their quirks. The work is nice and confusing. I read a lot, write too little and attempt to comprehend marketing diagrams with all its inane triangles, circles and figure eights. If you have ever seen a VALSII diagram, all modern society fits neatly into 8 diamonds. I think it’s funny. I live simply: eat, watch tv, shower and then sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat!

On weekends, various family members come to kidnap me for sleepovers, birthdays, weddings and picnics. It almost always requires a 4 hour road trip to somewhere. I kinda like it. Away from the city, you’d see horizons of greens from paddyfields, sugar canes and goodness knows what else. On a clear day, you can see the sky sparkling on the ground peeking out in between the newly planted shoots of paddy. Sunsets on the highway are soft candyfloss-coloured swirls. The sun directly behind a tower of clouds would paint this beautiful shimmering outline like an eloquent argument in the ethereal.

When you put together a dozen grandmothers and grandfathers, they make a lovely noise. I have a theory that when you get older, people develop some sort of sophisticated calibration system that can determine if your grandchildren went up or down a dress size simply by hugging them. The minions, a. k. a. cousins, are sprouting out of aunts at a rate of two a year, growing up too fast and becoming way too smart. I haven’t been here long enough to establish my regency as head chief of minions. That ought to be fixed.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m doing okay. They’ve been talking about bigger things for me, things that may require the sacrifice of several forestfulls of trees and months of wringing my hands my insane ideas into words. The Almighty in the highest floor of this building has given an unofficial nod too. Kinda frightening. If I leave, I’d have to let it go. Who knows what will be printed in its place? And if I stay, well I don’t know if I’m ready to accept the consequences. I’m still wavering.

When my plane takes off, goodness knows how many days from now, I’m not sure if I’m coming home or leaving one behind. What should I do?

I’ve lost count of how many weeks have gone by. I do know that there are 43 days left. One entire month and a bit left. I’m okay. I’ve managed to settle down alright, partly because global cities are similar wherever you go:

The glamour. The dirt. The glazed and averted eyes. The cliffs of chrome and glass. The marble fortresses. The rivers of tin and steel. Different flavours of the same pollution. The kabuki faces. The nomads. The pot bellies and the empty stomachs.

The irony.

The distance between squalor and Department of Justice & Human Rights is roughly four metres. In four metres lies an abyss of letters and punctuations. I’m losing faith in the Bureaucracy. I still believe in Democracy though. I have been reminded where I came from and that has tempered much of my ideals. Identity is an individual expression but it is more contextually sensitive than we readily admit. It is defined by the spaces we occupy, always defined in contradistinction to this…Other. I think I’m making sense.

I don’t know. I’ll always be a strange kid wherever I go. That’s okay. There’s plenty of misfits here. Most of them seem to be working under the same office.

So it’s alright. I’ll be fine.

I can do this adulthood thing.

There are people here who live at crossroads: street children, women and men who live at the junctions. When the lights turn red they hawk their wares - whatever they can sell - from songs, toys, water and warm bodies. When the cars desert the streets they walk back to their houses made of zinc roofs and thin sheets of wood. From far away they look like matchboxes stacked one on top of the other, hidden behind the bushes just off the highway.

They are mostly women. Their skin had turned to leather. The sun had dried the youth out of them. The hollows of their thigh and calves let you know how many meals they eat a day. Slung across their hips are babies like accessories of labour. They joke. They laugh. The women learn to put on their saddest eyes. The men learn to put on their most alluring faces with eyebrows drawn at sharp angles and lips painted like blood. The too-old and the too-young make these concrete pavements their home. I wonder what happens in between.

Floating above in my safe airconditioned bus, I noticed two little kids. They were probably four years old at most: a girl and a boy. They huddled together underneath the traffic light. They laid their heads unto its concrete base like a pillow, snuggling under flimsy blankets and slept. From the light in their eyes, they were happy. Maybe this is all they know – a life amongst a carnival of vivid car lights.

I hear there is someone who cares: non-profits who take them and give them shelter somewhere far away. I hear that they often come back to the life of hawking. There is a mafia ring which presides over this particular Cempaka Mas junction called the Kapak Merah, or Red Axe, made of pickpockets and thugs. I hear things. It’s probably true.

I have my presumptions and they are made from lofty places, just like the conclusions you will make after reading this. It is too easy to look down upon them and place the blame squarely on culture. I won’t accept that explanation.

Our conceptions of the world are so intrinsic to our conditions, limited by the places and ranks that we have been born and socialized into. I’m beginning to doubt the definition of charity, goodness and everything nice when its very idea dictates a certain degree of compulsion. What on earth do people mean when they talk about making the world a better place? We’re always assuming there’s universality about what constitutes A Better Tomorrow. It really is just a load of bullshit.

Our dear president says that Indonesia Bisa! which is roughly translated as: Indonesia, we can do it! It is utterly meaningless. Bisa apa? Bisa maju, bisa bunuh diri, bisa di exploitasi lagi. We’ve always been able to do anything. The more important questions are still unanswered like what should we do? What are you willing to sacrifice for the God of Progress? The bank accounts of the richest strata? The security of the middle class? The lives of the poor?

All I see is an abyss. All I hear is noise.

I’m bored…well more precisely, procrastinating. I have things to do, lots of it but i have noooo idea what and where to start. Sheer inertia. But i stumbled onto this! Helpful things to remember about writing… and I am nowhere near writing a complete coherent sentence.

So procrastinate away fellow interns (=

Got it from here.

1. Every sentence should make sense in isolation. Like that one.

2. Excessive hyperbole is literally the kiss of death.

3. ASBMAETP: Acronyms Should Be Memorable And Easy To Pronounce, and SATAN: Select Acronyms That Are Non-offensive.

4. Finish your point on an up-beat note, unless you can’t think of one.

5. Don’t patronise the reader-he or she might well be intelligent enough to spot it.

6. A writer needs three qualities: creativity, originality, clarity and a good short term memory.

7. Choose your words carefully and incitefully.

8. Avoid unnecessary examples; e.g. this one.

9. Don’t use commas, to separate text unnecessarily.

10. It can be shown that you shouldn’t miss out too many details.

11. Similes are about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

12. Avoid ugly abr’v'ns.

13. Spellcheckers are not perfect; they can kiss my errs.

14. Somebody once said that all quotes should be accurately attributed.

15. Americanisms suck.

16. Capitalising for emphasis is UGLY and DISTRACTING.

17. Underlining is also a big no-no.

18. Mixed metaphors can kill two birds without a paddle.

19. Before using a cliché, run it up the flagpole and see if anybody salutes.

20. There is one cheap gimmick that should be avoided at all costs…………..suspense.

21. State your opinions forcefully-this is perhaps the key to successful writing.

22. Never reveal your sources (Alistair Watson, 1993).

23. Pile on lots of subtlety.

24. Sure signs of lazy writing are incomplete lists, etc.

25. Introduce meaningless jargon on a strict need-to-know basis.

26. The word “gullible” possesses magic powers and hence it should be used with care.

27. The importance of comprehensive cross-referencing will be covered elsewhere.

28. Resist the temptation to roll up the trouser-legs of convention, cast off the shoes and socks of good taste, and dip your toes refreshingly into the cool, flowing waters of fanciful analogy.

29. Don’t mess with Mr. Anthropomorphism.

30. Understatement is a mindblowingly effective weapon.

31. Injecting enthusiasm probably won’t do any harm.

32. It is nice to be important, but it is more important to avoid using the word `nice.’

33. Appropriate metaphors are worth their weight in gold.

34. Take care with pluri.

35. If you can’t think of the exact word that you need, look it up in one of those dictionary-type things.

36. Colons: try to do without them.

37. Nouns should never be verbed.

38. Do you really think people are impressed by rhetorical questions?

39. Pick a font, and stick with it.

40. Sufficient clarity is necessary, but not necessarily sufficient.

41. Less is more. This means that a short, cryptic statement is often preferable to an accurate, but drawn out, explanation that lacks punch and loses the reader.

42. Sarcasm-yes, I bet that will go down really well.

43. The problem of ambiguity cannot be underestimated.

44. Never appear cynical, unless you’re sure you can get away with it.

45. Many writer’s punctuate incorrectly.

46. Colloquialisms are for barmpots.

47. There is a lot to be said for brevity.

48. To qualify is to weaken, in most cases.

49. Many readers assume that a word will not assume two meanings in the same sentence.

50. Be spontaneous at regular intervals.

51. The era of the euphemism is sadly no longer with us.

52. Want to be funny? Just add some exclamation marks!!!

53. Want to appear whimsical? Simply append a smiley

54. Some writers introduce a large number, N, of unnecessary symbols.

55. Restrict your hyphen-usage.

56. Choosing the correct phrase is important compared to most things.

57. Some early drafts of this document had had clumsy juxtapositions.

58. Try not to leave a word dangling on its own
line.

59. The number of arbitrary constants per page should not exceed .13.

60. Use mathematical jargon iff it is absolutely necessary.

61. And avoid math symbols unless $ a good reason.

62. Poor writing effects the impact of your work.

63. And the dictionary on your shelf was not put there just for affect.

64. If there’s a word on the tip of your tongue that you can’t quite pin down, use a cinnamon.

65. If somebody were to give me a pound for every irrelevant statement I’ve ever read, then I would be very surprised.

66. Strangely enough, it is impossible to construct a sentence that illustrates the meaning of the word `irony.’

67. Consult a writing manual to assure that your English is correct.

68. It has been suggested that some words are absolute, not relative. This is very true.

69. Be careful when forming words into a sentence-all orderings are not correct.

70. Many words can ostensibly be deleted.

71. In your quest for clarity, stop at nothing.

72. Complete mastery of the English language comes with conscientious study, notwithstanding around in bars. Moreover the next page. Inasmuch detail as possible.

73. Sporting analogies won’t even get you to first base.

74. If you must quote, quote from one of the all-time greats (Cedric.P. Snodworthy, 1964).

75. In the absence of a dictionary, stick to words of one syllabus.

76. Steer clear of word-making-up-ism.

77. Readers will not stand for any intolerance.

78. If there’s one thing you must avoid it’s over-simplification.

79. Double entendres will get you in the end.

80. Vagueness is the root of miscommunication, in a sense.

81. Don’t bother with those “increase-your-word-power” books that cost an absorbent amount of money.

82. Self-contradiction is confusing, and yet strangely enlightening.

83. Surrealism without purpose is like fish.

84. Ignorance: good writers don’t even know the meaning of the word.

85. The spoken word can look strange when written down, I’m afraid.

86. Stimpy the Squirrel says “Don’t treat the reader like a little child.”

87. Intimidatory writing is for wimps.

88. Learn one new maths word every day, and you’ll soon find your vocabulary growing exponentially.

89. My old high school English teacher put it perfectly when she said: “Quoting is lazy. Express things in your own words.”

90. She also said: “Don’t use that trick of paraphrasing…… [other people's words]…… inside a quote.”

91. A lack of compassion in a writer is unforgivable.

92. On a scale of 0 to 10, internal consistency is very important.

93. Thankfully, by the year 2016 rash predictions will be a thing of the past.

94. There is no place for overemphasis, whatsoever.

95. Leave out the David Hockney rhyming slang.

96. Bad writers are hopefully ashamed of themselves.

97. Eschew the highfalutin.

98. Sometimes you publish a sentence and then, on reflection, feel that you shouldn’t ought to have been and gone and written it quite that way.

99. Practice humility until you feel that you’re really good at it.

100. If there’s a particular word that you can never spell, use a pnemonic.

101. A strong ending is the last thing you need.

102. Make sure that your title is accurate.

103. Spelling dictionaries should be made compulsary.

104. Sometimes, a foreign phrase can add a little `je ne sais rien.’

105. In terms of writing convoluted sentences, don’t.

106. Let’s face it, we all hate it when a writer appeals to the lowest common denominator.

107. Learn the basic spelling rules; don’t just rely on fonetix.

108. Only take writing tips from world-renounced writers.

109. Writing for the non-native English speaking market is a different kettle of fish.

110. If you can’t afford a book on grammar, at least find someone to lend one off.

111. Nothing is worse than ambiguity.

112. Oh, and avoid afterthoughts.

As my bus turns around the roundabout this morning, Monas rises into view. Grey outlines emerge against a gauzy radiant white sky as though they were transparent shadows flipped upright. To the left the bulbous dome and minarets of the Istiqlal Mosque nudge through. To the right the intricate spires of the Cathedral thrust itself upwards as if in answer. Like sentinels standing quietly in silence, they face the giants of Bureaucracy and Business. It’s squat in comparison. But against a pearly canvas, they gleam ethereal and luminous with all its faith and all in harmony.

The discords you hear are the din of the little people and the little day. If they would tilt their head skyward and gaze upon this light and surrender to its height, maybe they’d hear it too.

It is an island, unwilling to accept its smallness. You can touch one tip and its furthest end at the same time with your hands. It is fenced in with walls of water and aloof neighbours. The body has a way of getting used to airlessness. With its smallness, it believes it is a nucleus – the Hub of Everything and Nothing. These are man-made shores, less inspiring than the dramatic sunsets that touches its waters each day. Its inhabitants are too busy to notice it. There is so very little you could care about here, beyond the reaches of your hands, which breeds indifference for the immaterial. All the same, it’s good for the island. It’s good for the people. Indifference, not compliance, is a necessary prerequisite for control.

These are not my hands and these are not my walls. I cannot accept my own smallness.

So I will set sail from here in half a decade. You’ll see.

“I always understood that those supermen were rather what you call egoists”
“Oh no, that’s wrong,” replied Helen. “No superman ever said ‘I want’, because ‘I want’ must lead to the question ‘Who am I?’ and so to Pity and Justice. He only says ‘want’. ‘Want Europe’ if he’s Napoleon; ‘want wives’ if he’s Bluebeard; ‘want Botticelli’ if he’s Pierpont Morgan. Never the ‘I’; and if you could pierce through him you’d find panic and emptiness in the middle.”

“Miss Schlegel, the real thing’s money, and all the rest is a dream.”
“You’re still wrong. You’ve forgotten Death.”
Leonard could not understand
“If we lived for ever, what you say would be true. But we have to die, we have to leave life presently. Injustice and greed would be the real things if we lived for ever. As it is, we must hold to other things, because Death is coming. I love Death – not morbidly, but because He explains. He shows me the emptiness of Money. Death and Money are the eternal foes. Not Death and Life. Never mind what lies behind Death, Mr Bast, but be sure that the poet and the musician and the tramp will be happier in it than the man who has never learned to say: ‘I am I’”

- E. M Forster, Howard’s End.