George Orwell Said . . . 3/04/2012 01:05:00 AM

. . . this, about how to write (in his essay Politics and the English Language):

• Never use a metaphor, simile or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
• Never use a long word where a short one will do.
• If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
• Never use the passive where you can use the active.
• Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
• Break any of these rules sooner than say anything barbarous.

Sound, simple rules. I think I need to follow them.

The Manics Made Me Manic 3/01/2012 03:56:00 PM

I listened to this song in heavy rotation the other day:



Come the time to sleep, I just couldn't, because the song kept repeating itself over and over and over again inside my head. God knows Judge Yr'self is hardly the perfect lullaby.

Maybe I should listen to this song instead. Problem is, as much as I like Manic Street Preachers and love James Dean Bradfield('s voice), the idea of him singing a Wham! song simply reduces me to giggles. Thus, same effect as the above.

A word to the wise. Playing a single song on a loop for hours on end isn't a very good idea, no matter how much you enjoy that particular song. Now, where is that MP3 player . . . .

Note: Before you ask, no, I don't have "4REAL" tattooed on my arm and Karl Marx posters in my room.

We Don't Speak Dutch 2/24/2012 10:19:00 AM

For some reason, we got Dutch commentary for last night's Manchester United-Ajax game. Thank goodness it was switched to English halfway through the first half. It's not that I enjoy football commentary in particular, but hearing that oft-parodied language in the background of a United match was disturbing, to say the least.

"Oft-parodied", yes. You see, Republic of Indonesia was the Dutch East Indies once upon a time, and we didn't part ways in the best of terms. "We'll accept your claim of independence"--I can imagine the Crown said disdainfully--"if you pay the Dutch East Indies' debts. All of them." That's exactly what we did. And Indonesians disdainfully retaliate by reducing all Dutch to the role of blabbering bad guy almost every time they appear on motion picture/TV movies/literature.

Anyway, I don't know for sure what the Dutch's cultural strategy for this particular colony was, but I dare say it was markedly different from that employed by other colonial powers, the French, for example. The Dutch and their practicalities, you have to hand it to them, really. Why bother with the theoretical discourse about cultural superiority when one can opt for a more practical approach? Learning local custom, and then infiltrating them to foment discord or inspire submission, say? (The Dutch were great ethnographers.)

Long story short, the Dutch didn't promote their language in this part of the world and thus, Dutch--the language, I mean--had never really taken roots in Indonesia. In his memoir Doing Java, anthropologist Niels Mulder remarked how difficult it was in the late '60s-'70s to find Indonesians who were capable of conversing in foreign language (Dutch, English, German, anything). That was twenty, thirty odd years after we declared our independence. These days, many Indonesians understand English, but Dutch? Even my brother, who majored History and therefore was required to learn Dutch at college, only scoff at my notion that he should at least be able to read Dutch text.

As we enter the second decade of the 21st century, it is the East Asian languages that seem to generate interest amongst young Indonesians. As for Dutch, a small number of my country fellowmen/-women will keep on learning it, no doubt, but while Dutch once functioned as a status symbol of some sort, nowadays fluency in Dutch would probably only earn you respect reserved for speakers of "exotic" languages, on a par with Russian or Farsi perhaps. Not too bad, eh?

Pointless 2/01/2012 01:17:00 PM

I hardly watch TV these days. And when I do "tune in", more often that not it's for the English Premier League, which isn't exactly what you call local content. Between the dramas, the reality shows, and the newscasts, I don't know which one is worse.

Anyway, one program I dislike in particular is a curious specimen. It is . . . what? A talk show? If you define "talk show" as a program in which people talk incessantly, then yes, it is pretty much it, although "open forum" would be more accurate. But there's a catch. Its participants aren't just your typical laymen; they're lawyers. (They invite a few non-lawyers too, though, usually to share their tales of woe or to represent some government agency.) Week in, week out, they regale us mere mortals with their well-informed opinions on a wide range of topics, from the inner politics of our country's football governing body, to DUI (last night's topic).

Oh, did I say "well-informed opinions"? Well, not really. Sure, at times they pepper their observations with reference to this or that chapter from our legislation. But they're mainly saying what everybody else knows, like "There's no justice for the poor in our justice system," or "The government had let us down."

While I understand that people need to whine now and then about the dismal state our country is in--lighten the load, you know--I can't fathom why they would want to listen some guys (yes, they're mostly male) in fancy suits doing the same thing. I mean, the kind of talk you hear in that show, I imagine it's pretty common at coffee shops and public pavilions (poskamling) in the whole country. Of course, when you engage in a discussion in such places, you can always participate, put your two cents, and not just sit passively. Like I said, it's not as if those lawyers give you new and valuable insights to the matter at hand. (And even if they do, it's only rarely.)

But . . . I'm being unfair. After all, those lawyers are encouraged to spew forth lame comments. And if they end up having a shouting match with each other, the better. In fact, I suspect that that's what the moderator is after. Stir up a bit controversy, heat things up.

Oops, maybe I should shut up now. In case they sue me for libel or something.

Tale of Warrior 1/21/2012 05:54:00 PM

Do you know? Warriors Sport had made a deal with Liverpool FC, replacing their current sponsor, Adidas. You don't know? You don't care? Well, I reckon you won't, unless you're a LFC supporter. But anyway, this inconsequential piece of news reminded of something. A different kind of Warrior. Warrior shoes, to be precise.

Now, if you happened to go to public schools in Bandung in the '90s, I'm sure you would know what those are. Warrior shoes were the select regulation shoes at that time. They were cheap, they were made in China, and by God how I used to hate them. They had too many eyelets, their green insoles made your white socks (yes, only white socks were allowed) all grenish, and after a week of use they would definitely let wetness seep in from underneath--which is why Warriors were hardly the shoes of choice for angkot-taking school children in a relatively wet city in a tropical country.

The (in)famous Warrior Shoes

The funny thing was, school regulation didn't actually necessitate the use of that particular brand, but rather, a specific style--black high-tops canvas shoes. A couple of school mates ended up wearing New Balance or Converse, which were maybe five times more expensive than Warrior. Completely defeats the purpose, methinks.

Anyway, if someone were to ask me to pick out regulation shoes, I'd choose Chinmi shoes, or kung-fu shoes, or whatever it is that you call them. They're Chinese, too, and really cool. Okay, so they let water in as well, but at least Bruce Lee wore them. What more can you ask?

Going Solo part 1 1/05/2012 04:43:00 PM

Visiting Indonesia, he got to understand his country a bit more, Malaysian writer Karim Raslan once said. The reverse could be applied to me: visiting Malaysia helps me understand what my country--Indonesia--is all about. Sort of.

My quest for solo adventure began when I realized, belatedly, that my passport would soon to be useless. My passport would expire in eight months, and it's still empty. I reckoned it would be awkward when the time comes to renew my passport and the immigration official finds it yet to be used. Where to go then? The common opinion was Singapore, but what the heck would I do there? Shopping? Gawking at its modernity and displaying what a bumpkin I am? Thanks, but I'll pass. The next candidate was Malaysia. It's close, I don't need a visa to visit the country, and my parents wouldn't needlessly fuss over it too much (what with it being my first time abroad and all by myself to boot, my attempt at coaxing a friend to join me had previously failed). So Malaysia it is. I've been wanting to go to Malacca for some time, and a friend said that Penang is a must-see. So up I went.

Landing at Penang after a two-hour flight, I was greeted by a blast of humid air upon stepping out of the airport. It's a small island after all, I mused, with sea all around it. The arrival of Rapid Penang bus soon afterwards confirmed that I was indeed in a foreign country. Indonesian buses aren't much to look at, but Rapid Penang is so sleek and clean, and . . . Oh, look! Gigantic letters of T, E, S, C, and O on a strip mall! Not just any foreign country then, but a foreign country that was once a British colony!

The bus took me cruising down neat, wide streets to the conspicuous KOMTAR--Kompleks Tun Abdul Razak, named after the former Prime Minister--the tallest building on the island, in Georgetown. I had a map in my person, but thanks to my terrible sense of direction, I got lost within five minutes of getting off the bus. The fact that Malaysian road signs are parallel to the street--in contrast to those in Indonesia, which are perpendicular to the street--didn't help either.

After a couple of wrong turns--well, more than a couple--I finally found the place I was meant to stay in. When my declaration of having made a reservation in Bahasa Indonesia was met by blank stare from the attendant, I realized once again that despite the linguistic similarity, despite the common roots, Bahasa Indonesia and Malaysian Malay are two different entities, mirroring two different paths the two nations had taken.

to be continued when i feel like writing again . . . .

The Painted Veil (W. Somerset Maugham) 11/14/2011 04:24:00 PM

I picked this book for one reason, and one reason only: because I love the movie. Naomi Watts and Edward Norton delivered superb performance, the depiction of interior China was beautiful, and the story was romantic. And I don’t use the word “romantic” lightly, mind you. Bearing that in mind, imagine how I felt when I realized the book was crucially different from its motion picture counterpart.

The main character is a young woman named Kitty. She was almost past marriageable age (twenty-five years old!), and to make matters worse, her younger--and less beautiful--sister had just gotten engaged. So, Kitty did what every sensible woman would do under the circumstances: she jumped the gun with the first guy who proposed! Enter Walter Fane, an uptight “man of science” serving in the colony of Tching-Yen (Hong Kong upon first publication, but under the threat of libel from someone of the same name, it became a fictitious colony instead).

The problem is, Kitty was the kind of person who couldn’t see a man beyond his charm and good looks, of which Walter had none. Little wonder that she fell for the dashing Assistant Colonial Secretary, Charles Townsend. They had an affair, Walter found out, and then came the ultimatum: either he filed for divorce on the ground of adultery, or she came with him to Mei-tan-fu, a remote town ransacked by cholera epidemic. In the end, Kitty had no choice but to go with the latter option, just like Walter knew she would (because Townsend’s just fooling around with her, in any case): this would be her punishment.

It is at this point that the movie deviated from the original work. Away from the world, movie-Kitty and Walter saw each other in a way that they never had before, and found it in themselves to forgive each other. In the book, what happened, I think, was some sort of self discovery. It didn’t bring happiness to the couple, though.

And while we’re talking about unhappiness, I have to say that I’m not quite sure what Walter wanted to convey on his deathbed. He said, “The dog it was that died,” which is a reference to Oliver Goldsmith’s An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. It strikes me not as words of regret, more like recognizing and accepting the inevitable--his futile love and Kitty’s flaws. (Does it make any sense?)

To me, Kitty’s understanding of herself was a pivotal point in the book. She’s shallow, and she acknowledged and accepted that. I imagine that’s how things work in real life most of the time. You don’t go to a secluded place and suddenly reform your “wicked” ways, but sometimes you do get to see yourself for what you really are. Yes, the movie is sweet, but the book is more poignant because the characters didn’t change. There’s no love and forgiveness, only regret.

Fancying a Footballer 11/06/2011 12:43:00 AM

Phil Jones is a very talented young player. He’s a tough defender, he can pass, he can run, he reads the game well. Oh, and he happens to be rather cute. I want to smack myself as I’m writing this.

The last time I was smitten by a footballer was . . . . . Becks, circa 1996. That was before he hooked up with his Spice Girl (future) wife and became a global celebrity, mind you. And thankfully, it didn’t last long. (I believe it was less than a season.) Anyway, it was a different era altogether. I was a kid, newly initiated to the cult of Manchester United--which is a good thing--but at that time I also listened to boybands. You get my drift.

When I was younger, people were more skeptical about girls who like football. It didn’t help that some girls boldly announce that they watched football because of this player or that player, who were good-looking.

The problem with me--or rather, the good thing about me--was, more often than not, I don’t even realize it if a player is good looking. I mean, it’s hard to, even if I want to. If you love football as much as I do, you’d spontaneously focus on the flow of the game, the teams’ build-up play, individual contribution, anything but the handsomeness or the ugliness of a player.

Question: Would I even notice Jonesy’s cuteness if he showed less than brilliant performance for United so far? I don’t think so. End of story.

OCD 10/08/2011 05:21:00 PM

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Walls Come Tumbling Down 9/27/2011 11:05:00 AM

There's this shopping center that I used to go to as a kid. I remember my parents taking me to the game center on the uppermost floor. I remember getting a copy of Blur's The Great Escape from a record store there. As the city's center of commerce moved away from that particular location, it was attracting less and less visitors until finally, around 2000, it was closed down for good. Now, all that's left is a dilapidated building, an empty shell.

A sight like this always pains me immensely. And my hometown has lots of it. Once grand houses now encroached by weeds, old cinemas with collapsed roof and weathered facade, gloomy shops with nearly-empty display. Whenever I see them, I wonder. What kind of people spent their time there, how they lived their lives.

As I understand it, buildings are more than just bricks and mortar. They are made of people's hopes and dreams. It doesn't matter what you think about today's developers and their tasteless strip malls and uniformed houses, but there's a reason why property always sells. It gives a sense--or an illusion, rather--of permanence, in an ever-changing world.

Maybe that's why a state of abandon bothers me so much. Because I know in some not-very-unconscious level, those buildings are testaments of forgotten dreams, a reminder of our own fleeting existence. And that one day, everything that we've built with hard work will crumble. And that we, too, will vanish without a trace.

Notes: The title is ripped off shamelessly from a Style Council song. No copyright infringement intended.