Nocturnal: I

I will miss you forever, and ever, Jerusalem.

Ambiguous

I must say, I don't have the keen interest all built up for Hari Raya this year. When I say this, this term, I must meant the hype and the chaos, puns intended, surrounding it. The very essence of Hari Raya is, of course, untouchable, unchangeable, and it is the essence that is the only part that I hold respectful, and meaningful -- but not the whole euphoria.

I might be accused for being unorthodox, but then I'm always accused of all things. People who ask 'why--?' over this matter, or over my opinions on other matters similar, for me are unsurprising. My stand is this, and it is simple: I don't believe in things I don't understand. Be it understood, or will be understood -- it won't matter: as long as it is not comprehendible, then it is.

I did say, however, that I do appreciate the core element of the whole celebration. Yes, I do, and why not? Love, victory, happiness: who would ignore these, replace these for anything? It is the clumsy celebration that I'm against, and I wish to skip. Victory is not for those who didn't fight, love is not for those who didn't love, and happiness, is still expensive.

Label me with all labels you want, call me heretical, grim. But of this I am sure: sweetness can't be differentiated without the sour.

11 months to go until the next Ramadan.

To:

It's my last day in Makkah, today. The feeling is.. static, contemplative, nowhere at the zenith of feelings. However this, I must say: We are beautiful, and it's amazing how we can go on and live without realising that, in fact, believing in quite the opposite. We are beautiful, and we're living in beauty, though some might argue, it's not everlasting.

I'm set for Amman later today and Jerusalem tomorrow. Wish us a safe entry into the Palestinian Territories. And Selamat Hari Raya.

It was a Ramadan to be missed, dearly.

Bracket G

It's hard when you have secrets that you yourself forgot.

It's hard, and it's scary.

Mirror

They say, sketches are often reflections of ourselves.

What if, the sketches are a part of us,
the part that has been taken away, often for the good, often for the world to see and appreciate?

Schaulager, by Herzog & de Meuron, Basel, Switzerland; June 2010. Charcoal on paper.

Textures & Details: Solo

Once a mighty Javanese empire, the Sultanate of Mataram was divided by their colonial masters -- the Dutch -- giving birth to two smaller monarchies. One; Yogyakarta, strived and struggled to be mighty: loud in modern Indonesian politics, having acquiring the special region status, thus strong in influence and power. The other, Surakarta -- or Solo -- took a much silent path, from perhaps a regrettable past, into a possible future.

Solo seems untouched, unlike its much popular and favoured bigger sister, Yogyakarta. Both cities are related, and in many sense, close neighbours. And both are at the beating heart of the Javanese culture, nestled in the middle of the densely-populated Java, going about their lives while being concentrated to the main node: the important institution of the kraton. Intricate, gentle, subtle, exquisite: these make up the details and textures of the fine characteristics of the Javanese cultural context, and of course, the content.

With Solo, things go closer to authentic.

Afternoon walk.

Motorists pass by the roads penetrating through the compound of the kraton, namely the Kraton Surakarta Hadiningrat, the seat of the Javanese monarchy now headed by Pakubuwono XIII.


One of the gates leading to the alleys serving the houses, usually belonging to the servants and workers of the kraton.

A statue of Hanuman, a prominent monkey figure in Hindu-Buddha folklore, stands guarding one of the gates of the palace compounds.

One of the prominent blue doors of the alleyways, locally known as gang.

Youngsters take a walk in the southern alun-alun, a public square, within the kraton compounds. Successfully crossing the two banyan trees blindfolded, as legends told, signifies a pure heart.

Mobile food vendor selling bakso bakar, grilled meatballs -- a dish famous throughout Indonesia.

Transport. Income. Shelter.

On a journey to freedom.

Photos are from January - February trip to Java, Indonesia.

Nightmare.

I have a nightmare. A nightmare that will catch me when I'm awake -- especially when I'm awake -- robbing all my beautiful dreams, leaving only bad thoughts that will send me paralysed, easily. It will attack, like a disease, anytime, even during when I'm at the happiest -- which is a rarity, anyhow. It resides within my laughters and my tears. It seems to be never-ending, it seems stubborn, it seems to not wanting to go anywhere.

Should I be scared? I think I deserve to be scared. I think I should.

This nightmare attacks me most in the form of memories. Of course. Whatever that I have tried to forget, or succeeded in forgetting, it will revive. Whatever that I want to remember, it will wash away, in a manner of how water and soap wash away dirt. Not necessarily with a trace, but clean. Undesirably, the most unfathomable, the villainous of thoughts stick. And they spread.

Whenever this nightmare comes, it will send me chills. I will shiver. I have to shiver. It is the mechanism, this shivering: it'll jot away the pain, an attempt to return to sender, but always in vain. I have to sit down. Worse, I have to recline, lie down, and sleep. Often times, sleep is always the best remedy to this nightmare. The irony.

The subject on whether I really own this nightmare, or is it somebody else's, remains unanswerable.

I miss you.

Plans

Anxious.