Hey, so..

I can't conjure an apple.

I used to compromise with my supposedly above average skill to develop fitting metaphors for all sort of emotions I was feeling. The way people can connect cloudy grey sky to sad, or sunny blue to happy. Red for blood. Damage. Harm. Lipstick's not even the first thing on my mind.

It's uncanny how we attribute red to both pain and pleasure. Blood. Sex. Excitement.

One thing can be good to someone as it is bad for others.

My therapist told me not to think in black-and-white. I didn't know what that means, but I don't like how grey some things are to me right now. It makes me feel powerless, uncertain, and even more indecisive than before.

And now I can't see any other colors. That's why, yet again, I compromise. This time in the form of picking the most feminine pastel pink color for all my new stuff. Mouse? Pink. Headphone? Pink. Shirt? Pink. Headclip? Pink. Bass guitar? You bet.

At least now I have the courage to actually take on a hobby. I started with a guitar, dreamt of mastering the drums, and now I end up with a bass guitar. Funny how life turns out sometimes. Or maybe I'm still too cowardly to actually pursue what I really want and camouflage it with another, telling people that it's what I want. Kinda like playing a Queen because you're still waiting for the perfect moment to reveal your two Aces. And you don't know if the moment will ever really come.

I stopped re-dying my hair blue, because I'm a functioning member of the adult society, and now all I have is these limp, frizzy, sad strands of hair that died (heh) for no reason. Well, at least if you bleach them dead you gotta make it look exciting, right? But yet here there are, and here I am, dying inside with no sign of color.

This might as well be another version of "jobs under capitalism ruin everything" rant, where I'd argue that these 9-to-5 jobs and the inherent expectations that came included, without seemingly proper security guaranteed, has stripped us dry of all sort of excitement and life. Then it would just be another Palahniuk novel. Or I'd present the contrarian argument that "humans have always had jobs and they were harsher back then", blah blah blah, and I'd still have no idea what I'm doing with my life.

Of course a lot has happened to me these past.. I don't know, months, since I last wrote an entry here? Not all bad, hell, I don't know if anything bad has happened, per se. If anything, I've learned a lot here and there. It's just I seemed to not have time to step back and reflect, much more write about them.

If this keeps up, my hair's going to go naturally white before I can publish anything of value.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell is actually holding me back from pursuing what I want.

Nobody Even Reads This Anymore, Right?

The long weekend is coming to an end. Looming. I have a couple of hours to confess, before the clock strikes twelve.

What is it about Blogspot's Times New Roman font, which is generally treated as the anal version of typography, that feels like the presence of an old friend?

Everyone is going back to their respective workplaces. To their place in society. To their designated function and purpose.

And there's me.

When everyone's busy doing what they're doing, where do I fit in?

The anxiety of being discovered inhibits me from being my true self.

If only I had known the bitter shame of failing to conform, I would deny any form of social awareness.

Tick. Tock.

You have 45 minutes left.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I just want to disappear.

I'm nothing but a walking shadow of my remnants. Crumbling past and decaying memories.

And expectations of once upon a time a prodigy.

Cook-off

Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

Writing is a lot like cooking.

You get the appropriate ingredients (ideas), clean and prep them (jotting down the idea), cut them up and throw away the skins (get rid of irrelevant stuff), filter out scums in the boiling water (get rid of even more irrelevant stuff), season it with aromatic (add flairs and metaphors) and top it up with garnish, and you’d probably end up with something more or less edible.

If it tastes good, that’s a bonus point for you. And for a brief moment you thought you had it in you to become a professional cook.

Just like cooking, writing is never instant. Even if you just want to make something simple, cup noodles still take four minutes to get ready.

Just like the dry noodles needing time to seep all that boiling water, you also need inspiration to seep into your brain and turn them into a short passage according to your vision.

Or not. That might be ridiculous. This is just a thought that pops up as I am currently rewriting yet another draft of my long(ish)-form essay about the evolution of the music genre that doesn’t seem to be done from two weeks ago.

“The only kind of writing is rewriting” As the great sailor-author Ernest Hemingway once said.

Now, I’ve always been scared of calling myself a “writer” or even an aspiring one, because in this age of instant gratification and abundance of content, taking a long time to create one blog post that’s not exactly catering to the masses seems like a waste of energy.

In a sense, that’s actually unfair both for me and for all the content creators out there, because things do take time. 

Unfair for myself because I’m beating myself over the fact that it takes more than one week to finish a mini-essay about music streaming, when I know darn well I’m progressing. Unfair for everyone in the creative industry for undermining their process and somehow thinking that their creation happened instantly.

Even YouTube “video essays” that are seemingly just “rants” probably needed at least a month for idea generating, conceptualizing, and implementation (scripting, script editing, recording, re-recording, video editing and god knows what else). Well… at least the ones I watch and find value in.

And I get that it’s hard to quantify creative processes. How long is too long of a process? How much does a decent design actually worth? How much does an extraordinary painting worth? What defines a good creation? If an alleged “masterpiece” doesn’t have people appreciating it, is it still a masterpiece? If my writing, which I poured out my heart and soul to, doesn’t gain any traction, should I say it’s a flop and I should stop writing?

Even so, the nice thing about creative processes is that it always ultimately stems from the depth of our human need for self-expression. I write because I have an (abundance of) idea to communicate and pour into words. I didn’t initially seek approval or audience, although recently I find myself longing for a community in order to hopefully discuss the idea further and inspire me to keep writing. 

And maybe build myself a portfolio as a “writer” of some sort, because apparently I can’t just expect people to believe that I’m smart and a great verbal communicator.

I know that’s rich coming from me, and I realize how late I might just be. With the uprising abundance of generative AI tools that easily, almost instantly, lets people create soulless contents for the mere sake of capitalizing on it. “Ways to make money from ChatGPT”, they would claim.

We should be celebrating more often the journey of our creative process. Because it’s fun. Because it serves as proof of our existence, the synthesis of our accumulated subjective experiences. It’s who we are as humans.

Creating is a lot like cooking, and just as necessary.

Why I Haven't Been Showing Up (Here)

I've just read a Medium blog post about "showing up".

And I gotta say, these past three years or so I've learnt my lesson to do so. Showing up is exactly the only thing you can control in life. 

I used to not be able to relate to my fellow college mates whom people talked about because they "disappeared" from college. You know the ones, not attending classes but still have their names attached in the academic registry.

Until I become one of them.

There are various reasons for it to happen, and I don't speak for anyone else, but in my case it's mostly personal and internal struggle. A struggle to mingle with new people. A struggle to learn completely new things. A struggle to make peace with myself for not being perfect.

Over time, I managed to pull through with the help of friends who were all going through the same stuff. Apparently, nobody actually knows what they're doing, so all you can do is... you guessed it, show up. 

It's just stoicism, isn't it? Focus only on things within your control.

You don't know for sure if you're going to get the job or not, you can only show up to the interview and try your best. You don't know if your  You don't know for sure if your writing will get the attention it deserves or not, you can only consistently write.

And the act of showing up itself will lead you to a whole new experience. Unexpected things. And a couple of expected ones, I presume.

So why am I writing this?

Probably to ask myself, if you think showing up is important, why haven't you been doing so, as the owner of this blog?

Good question, my friend. (nanya sendiri jawab sendiri) 

Ironically, it's not like I stopped writing. I've just stopped posting.

There's not a single deciding factor. Maybe it's the lack of time and energy from my day job. Maybe it's the demotivation from the declining viewers' count. Maybe I just no longer find ranting in blog posts fulfilling and tried more serious things but never ended up finishing them. Maybe I began to think that spending so much time and energy to write isn't worth it anymore.

Or maybe Blogspot is no longer the satisfactory platform for me anymore.

I've been considering switching to more "modern", mobile-friendly blogging platforms with built-in audience. For my mini-essays or observation pieces related to my media interests like book or music reviews. Perhaps platforms like Medium or Substack.

I already gave a shot at Substack, setting up my pages (and projected topics / sections), and posting a couple of writings. But the menu is just so unintuitive and full of unnecessary bullcraps like subscriber newsletter setups, un-removable "podcast" section on my page, "social" posts and pages, and so on. It's like Medium with extra bullshit.

Medium sounds great because of its emphasized focus on writing, built-in audience (although with stiff competition), modern user interface, plugged-in article images, and mobile-view support. The way it's built makes it feels like it's supporting "branching" ideas like the ones my head usually makes up. Since I've tried signing up for it, I've been getting newsletter emails for topics of my interests, like app designs and writing. That's where I get the idea of how people generally write on the platform (one-sentence paragraphs and clickbait-y oh I'm sorry, it's hooks titles).

I love Blogspot because it's been a safe space for me. It acts like a dedicated little quirky corner for me and my antics in the vast realm of the internet, since the dawn of 2009. 

But the internet has shifted. Everyone keeps in touch through visual-based social media platforms now. Why write (and read) long-ass paragraphs when you can just snap a picture and post it for everyone (you filter to allow) to see, in an instant?

I used to plug links to my blog on Twitter (oh I'm sorry it's X now) whenever I published a new post, where I was my authentic self and my follower friends were highly tolerable to my antics. Usually when I tweet (oh I'm sorry it's post now) a hyperlink to my new post, it turns into an intuitive 'widget' thing that people would easily click, especially if I added thumbnails.

Now the platform policy doesn't really support any external links that will take viewers to another website. Whenever I tried to tweet a Substack link or blogspot link, the (recently implemented) view metric feature shows virtually zero viewers.

Probably also something to do with the seemingly declining trustworthiness of Blogspot. I've done a couple AI-labeling gig jobs, and all the Blogger websites I encountered had only shady contents (SEO keywords spam, copy-pasted articles, etc). So maybe my 15-years-old blog with nothing but my original rant contents is also mushed together with those shitshow.

So... yeah, I'm not really sure what's next. I'll probably still rant here every now and then, and shoot my shot at writing more topical things somewhere more audience can read them. I'll keep updating!

Cheers.

Just Another Sunday

This cafe is located at the heart of the city. I used to make this the setting of my fictional story where I met a street musician turned crush turned significant others (I dislike the term “lovers”, it's just too intense for my moderately modest taste). But I digress.

As one of the most central, bustling, economically productive and attention-grabbing parts of the city, it’s bound to be more well-developed. The streets are generally walkable with wide pedestrian paths, and various culinary and shopping destinations are lined up along the street. 

On a Sunday, it’s only natural there are this many people walking around and about. It’s very lively, very urban. I dig the vibe, which almost feels like being in downtown Paris, with less Eiffel and more tropical bushes.

I’m strategically playing the role of a watchman in the middle of it all. Alone. With my notepad and pair of watchful (but wary) eyes.

Around the room, I see people pouring in and out of the cafe, in groups or in pairings, rarely by themselves. The seats are filled with people sitting together and talking. Some visit only briefly for discounted cups of sweet coffee-stained beverages. Some spend tens of minutes to hours getting heated up in discussions. Most of them are dressed well; some even wear formal clothes, seemingly fresh out of attending a wedding ceremony. The adults are chatting and catching up, telling stories and talking a little bit (or even more) of business, while the children are busy among themselves, running around in their educated tiny pitter-patters.

Outside, I see vehicles passing by. Cars and motorbikes mingling on the road. Shoppers (also mostly in groups) pouring in and out of the infamous Japan-brand clothing store across the street. Trendy clothes, small purses, and paper shopping bags in their hands, pacing leisurely.

Upon the realization, I immediately feel out of place.

Even when this cafe is notorious for individuals working on their laptops, in the scheme of a long weekend afternoon, among people chattering and spending time with friends and families, away from their day job tasks (save for the baristas and service workers who are still on the clock, serving your bourgeoise ass), you trying to meet your self-inflicted blog post deadline (which you still haven’t work on yet btw) does not really fit the landscape.

Perhaps downright suspicious. Like a secret agent scouting out her target whose main choice of style is supposedly Uniqlo, trying to make their fashion statement as low profile as their existence. My notepad on my lap, mouth sipping sugarless iced americano, eyes keep glancing towards the white building.

But I’m in my element here. It’s true that I have developed my social skills to be aware of the collectivist culture at work that might put me in the minority, somewhat strange. But I’ve recognized myself enough to be comfortable being a loner, an observer, a type-two introvert who seeps energy from social interactions among people enjoying themselves, who want nothing to do with me. Me existing solely as a background character of their day, an NPC who spawned rather incorrectly.

It’s the pinnacle of a writer to not be perceived.

What Have and Could Have Been

A playlist to romanticize studying physics, it said.

Nowadays there’s an abundance of hyper-specific content. Especially with music, where people curate a playlist of music to meet certain themes, induce specific moods, etc etc.

I just wished I had something like this back then when I was still studying physics. Maybe, I’d be more dedicated to my STEM roots. Maybe, I wouldn’t have felt so alone. Maybe. I’d just let these classical pieces reverberate inside my room, encapsulate me in the warmth of their harmonies. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so alone.

All I’ve ever wished for and never dared stepping my toes in.

I’m having a deja vu, sort of. My first dorm room. Late at night, somber music in the background, laptop in front of me, desk facing a window of some sort with its flashy-colored curtain, and I still have the same desk lamp.

Pitter patter to the same old, same old, a decade later…

Always thought that I’d grow up to do great things.

Or maybe that’s the deal with prestigious university alumni, thinking they’re entitled to good things in life just because they aced three semesters or so.

But then again, I’ve struggled to get this far, why wouldn’t I want good things to happen to me?

However hard I’m trying to accept the bliss of mediocrity, my inner thoughts wouldn’t let me. Worse also is the fact that I’m still unsure of what to do with my life, and companies generally don’t want to deal with this sort of indecisive pansies.

Maybe I’m just in over my head too much, and I need to get out more. These days have been sort of lonely, in terms of being a functional, social adult.

Maybe I just need to get exercising again.

Maybe, taking a class or two.

My brain can be such a twat.

Sanitized Insanity

The third “job interview tips” video I’ve seen on my rec this week. It’s only Tuesday.

The company doesn’t want to waste your time as much as you don’t want to waste yours. The question is to make sure they can afford you. Every position is budgeted.

Be honest. Don’t be honest.

“If they want to make sure they can afford me, why don’t they tell us how much they’re paying?”

Two weeks after the grand national election and the whole media is a shitshow I can’t avoid. Mom blasts news channels on the daily. Rice scarcity and skyrocketing prices. Rigged election. Statistically impossible political party vote.

The price you pay for trying to be a smart, objective and educated citizen. The fang of depressing reality sinking deep into your skin.

Makes you wonder what’s real and what’s not. I’d like to coin the phrase gaslighted by the country but even I know how bad and un-catchy that is.

You think you’ve seen it, read it, known it from the history books. You’d think people would learn, but that’s just giving them too much credit. Politically stanced punk rock songs from the 90s suddenly sound relatable again, but that’s just because charts only play the blandest, most sanitized version of music nowadays.

What’s a radio? The youngsters would ask.

I’m turning 30 next year.

The job market isn’t like what it was in 1960. Hell, not even the 1990.

You thought you could get by just well after entering one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Diligent studies. Excellent grades. Organizational experience.

Turns out companies don’t need ‘smart’ people who have the capability to question stuff. They need ready-to-work wrench turners who don’t really ask things. Or loudmouth extroverts with the knowledge of the game, who claim to be anything but.

Be honest. Don’t be honest.

It’s no longer up to you anymore. Not your grades. Not your efforts. And certainly, not you. We may need you, but not that you, you know?

Makes you wonder what you can do by yourself, really.

Explain, they would demand.

Why you’re interested in this job. What your goal is for the next three, five, ten years. What your greatest weaknesses are. Why you have that hobby or this hobby. If you’re single and planning to marry.

Nobody asks about your favorite equation anymore. Or why some beaches have pink sands.

When you were 10 and you played with LEGO instead of investing in Apple Inc. stocks. The meme reads. I double-tap to “like” the post, then I scroll down to see my friend and her husband in the middle of the glittering Gulf country.

I feel the razorblades calling me once again. Perhaps chemical ingestion would be better, since your hand can be such a coward at the last moment.

Fitter, happier, more productive.

When are they calling my name?

Regular exercise at the gym, three times a week.

The meds act as contraception for my writing ideas, in exchange for ten hours of daily peaceful slumber. Thirty minutes five times of workout each week. Salads for breakfast, every morning.

Sometimes I wonder why I resigned from my previous job. The joyous nine hours of being in a windowless cubicle with thirteen other people. Writing reports. Monthly income. I constantly wished for earthquakes, a sudden heart attack, or alien invasion.

Getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries.

I suddenly have the urge to punch the man sitting across my waiting sofa. They had never diagnosed me with aggression. Emotional issue, maybe, but never violence. If you acted up during your psychiatry queue, would they bring in the police or would they understand?

What’s your expected salary? They’d ask.

I wish it was acceptable to answer my baseline requirement is IDR 600K total for two weeks’ worth of sanity. What’s the use in prolonging the inevitable when the world is ending anyway? Lime green-and-white Equitacs for the morning, white half dose of Noztrenia in the evening.

I play a little game called “how many days since the birth of a new routine schedule will it be actually implemented?”. How many days, indeed, even I lost track.