In Search of a Perfect Rythm

I had my first ever rave party last Saturday – yes, my first ever, and beforehand I never actually knew what the fuss was all about – until I got totally addicted to trance.
Me and my bitches were at the Tiesto In Search for Sunrise 5 at Pantai Carnaval, Ancol, and despite the rumors that it was going to be hot, packed and raining, we were ready to embrace whatever should happen to us – and boy oh boy did something happen – yes we had a helluva great time! Packed of course, hot, absolutely (with the amount of hot guys around plus dancing non-stop, how could we not be??) but no rain. Yes, there’s gotta be some kind of a ‘rain tamer’ involved but whatever was necessary to hold up such a great event was worth it. I wasn’t paying two hundred thou to have my hair and clothes plastered with water – though I honestly think even if it was raining it would still be absolutely amazing.

I was a bit self-conscious at first; having been absent from the clubbing scene for almost two years had practically turned my body un-co that whenever I heard a great music to dance to (which was often, if not everyday since I’d get slightly anxious if I didn’t listen to trance for two days at the most), all I could do was nod my head and sort of sway my hips and non-existent butt.

As we were waiting for the gate to open and my gals were smoking like chimneys because we were bored out of our minds and had run out of girly stuff to talk about, I was thinking about the ways to enjoy this most-anticipated night, coordinating dance movements in my head and realizing in despair because no way it would actually work – thinking about it and implementing it afterwards was not the same thing. Then I felt a slight de ja vu – this was what I always went through every time I was going out clubbing – I was nervous about dancing. Nervous!

But the minute we all got alcohol down our systems, we were like loose cannons. I couldn’t remember exactly how and why but all I thought was, “Fuck it, I’m gonna dance my ass off and I don’t give a flying fuck what others think about me!” – and so I did.

Whenever I lied myself down on my bed, closing my eyes and listening to trance, I always thought about how amazing it must be to listen to it outdoor and actually be with people who loved it as much as I did. And so I resolved – this was it. This was what I’d been wanting to know what it would feel like, what the fuck was I waiting for?

So I let go.

And I had a blast.

My girlfriends were beautiful, and we all danced like there was no tomorrow, we laughed, we swore, we giggled, we hugged each other, took pictures, checked out hot guys (and girls) and we were moving. And moving. And moving.

My mind was telling me to stop and slow down to take a deep breath before I start dehydrating but I didn’t want to stop. Because if I did, then I would fuck up my rhythm or mojo or whatever it was that I was feeling. I was surrounded by this ecstatic energy and I was amongst people who loved trance with a passion and somehow we were in unison – our hearts were thumping to the same beats, our minds were as one with our bodies and the only thing we could and only wanted to do was dance.

We were in trance.

I know I made it sound so perfect but no, it wasn’t the most perfect rave party ever; the toilets were revolting – it was one of those portable ones people use on construction sites – and we nearly got crushed to death the second time we were getting drinks, and it killed me even more because as we were sweating and going against the currents of people who didn’t want to get sober (i.e., us) to get out alive, “Love comes again” started playing and we were trapped. Knowing that DJ Winky was about five meters away from us didn’t exactly make us feel any better either.

But we’re definitely doing it again. Me, my bitches and alcoholic drinks – we’re one big happy family.

What Kills Me…

…is having to see beggars on the streets early in the morning when I’m on my way to work.

It’s not that they’re ruining my day – God, I would never be that horrible – but the fact that they are always there is shooting my nerves to ribbons, and every morning, without failing, there they will be; this old man with his small flask and some container for people to put money in huddling in the corner of the crossing bridge, and few meters down, a woman wearing a headscarf with her baby and her little daughter.

Every morning as I pass by, she seems to be just preparing to settle in that same spot. Sometimes she’d be feeding her baby – With what? How did she get milk? Is it milk? I sometimes wonder – and the little girl would wander around aimlessly, already set to be a pro beggar as I observe her day by day, progressing more courage to ask money from absolutely everyone who walked past.

Just this evening – as I passed by that same bridge on my way home – I saw her squatting and looking down on the floor, as trickles of water came out of her. She was urinating – and all I was thinking was the absence of clean water to wash herself with.

Sometimes when I have the chance I’d peer into their little plastic containers that are reserved for the passers-by to throw their money in, and most often I find that there is not even enough coins to buy … anything, really. At all. Just a couple of nickels that would mean as much as nothing.

I know it’s weird how I’m deeply affected by these things while others aren’t, as much as we are all exposed to it and witness it almost every day, from morning till evening.

Sometimes I despise myself for being so blindly soft-hearted to things that others are already over with.

But as long as these people still exist, my heart will still bleed.

Halcyon

You take me off the grounds

Float me up and away from this temporary residence

That I call my body

You take me to places I could only imagine

Across the seas and the skies

Blue oceans, as far as the eyes can see

Billowing clouds, tearing open for me to go through

I need only to close my eyes

And I feel like I’m in heaven already

Sometimes I’m amazed by your ability

of making the impossible seem possible

of giving joy only through my hearing sense

I have never doubted the existence of a God.

I know that there is God

and God

is a DJ.

Miranda, Miranda… Come And Show Yourself!

Sigh.

I might just better come to terms with it. I’m a short-haired girl, and that’s how it’s going to be, no matter how much I tried to rediscover my feminine outlook (It’s there somewhere). I own the least collection of make-up which I’ve practically stopped using ever since I broke up with CL, and when all of my girlfriends are busy mascara-ing and eye shadowing their eyes on our last minutes before heading out, I simply just stand there and watch, completely lacking the consciousness that perhaps I should be doing the same thing. To state the more obvious, just the other day I had to go to a seminar with my manager from work and she forgot to put on lipstick and so asked me whether she could borrow mine – to which I told her I had none. Never even owning one, as far as I could remember.

No matter how determined I was to grow my hair – “No, this is definitely the last time I’m ever wearing it short, I’m definitely growing mine!” – The practicality of wearing it short again – “…less time to dry my hair, so much versatility; wax, gel, wear it straight or wavy, you name it!” – allured me back to my almost-maniacal-but-turned-out-to-be-right hairdresser. Which was ironic, considering I’d only just dropped by to get a trim since it’d started to look a bit messy.

I’d specifically told him to just cut a little bit and he was all understanding, even showed me the amount he’d cut and I was left with the reassurance that he wouldn’t cut more than what was shown. Then he got possessed with the layering scissors and he simply couldn’t stop. And guess what happened: it was the Miranda cut over again. I felt a huge deja-vu sweeping in, and I realized it wasn’t, really. I’d pointed out countless images of girls with short hair – from Natalie Imbruglia when she was famous with her “Torn” and Samaire Armstrong from The O.C – that depicted nothing of what a Miranda’s would look like, but it was as if these hairdressers had some sort of universal code of understanding and that my face was blacklisted on hair salons all over the world – each hairdresser communicated to each other in conspirational tone, nodding their heads with recognition as they murmur, “Ah… it’s the girl with the tricky short hair request. It’s the Miranda cut for sure, nonetheless.”

Really it was quite bizarre. As I stared back in horror to my own reflection in the huge, over-exposured-by-lights mirror, I thought, “This can’t be happening, she couldn’t have been that obviously identifiable! I’m NOT that cynical!”

The thing is, the real Miranda I know would be able to pull this cut off, but I don’t think I can. It’s the whole short-hairedness of it that makes me seem like the cynical bitch she is, to which I’ve always intended to avoid. Having this cut encompasses the lack of feminine and emphasizes the masculinity in me, the whole “I can’t be fucked taking care of long hair let alone be a woman” over signifies the unmistakable air of a lazy spinster that is set to scare the shite out of men. I might as well wave goodbye to potential boyfriends who stumble – or not – upon me.

Oh well, though. I’m sure in a couple of weeks it’d look fine and I’d totally love it. I’ve been through incidents like these so many times before, and like I’ve always told myself every time my trip to the salons had inexplicably turned into a trip to the ghost house full of slightly maniacal, over-aesthetic-ized hairdressers – “It will grow back.”

I guess this is just one of me moving on with my life. I’m a Miranda, whether or not I’m willing to prepare myself to admit it, nevertheless. I’ve always secretly admire her tactfulness and though I think it’s too much to handle, I love her cynical comments and the way butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth when she had to deal with men.

Hell, if I am like her, it means I am capable of buying my own apartment and having a thriving career, and that sounds mighty fine for me.

The Indonesian Culture of Bantering

Why this is even a culture beats the shite out of me. From to the lamest to the most smart-arsed, it is an essential part of socializing in the grown-up world of social dos, special gatherings and workplaces.

I am never really good at it – in fact most often I’d just grimace and swallow the shame that I felt whenever someone bagged the crap out of me – be it mean or mild jokes. Quite frankly, I just don’t know how to retaliate them. Though I think like a writer, I am simply never prepared to throw out witty comments to outdo the ones that are attacking me. I usually come up with them later on – usually when I’m in the shower or doing other mundane things that make me think of other things in the back of my mind – and mentally kicking myself as well for not saying those things at the appropriate times and for being such a slow wit-cracker.

Nevertheless, it is never too late to learn. Everything starts from small things, and that is exactly what I do, and so I begin by saying small things first – Hey, if I can beat the guy who had bagged me yesterday in front of everyone about my macho walking habit by saying back to him that unlike me, he walked like he’d grown a set of female genitalia, such pride would I have! If I can make the whole table at luncheon piss in their pants laughing their heads off, what new found respect would I get!

Though these things are not meant to be easy learning, being surrounded by frightfully mean-spirited social banterers have taught me a thing or two and surprisingly, it gets easier once you get the hang of it.

All you gotta do is:

a) Enrich your vocabularies and try to think of ways to twist meanings of words and people’s names as often and as quick as you can, as much as possible. The more confusing and baffling they are, the better!

b) Practice the art of being mean – this is most important – without obviously meaning it, even if you actually do. The key is to get one person to laugh with you and no one would dare to protest. You get a supporter, and the rest will follow. And don’t ever say I’m not learning to be a power-tripping bitch.

c) Always be aware of other’s weakest point so you can use it against people and expose it to the public when they least expect it

It is undeniable, however, that keeping up with those things is a bit like trying to keep up with fashion – it’s ever changing, it’s ridiculous and tiring, and in the end, I really can’t be bothered because it’s not going to earn respect from others. I can’t imagine anyone at the end of the day going, “Look, she’s so witty with comeback comments, I can’t hardly wait to hear what she’s gotta say next!”

So the most smart-arsed thing to do is not to get carried away with it. I’m never good at keeping up with those things, and if people want to bag the crap out me, they are most welcome to do so. I’ve realized that I don’t want to stoop that low to be put in the same level as they are.

Truly, I am much more sophisticated than those useless eejits.