ALIEN LANDSCAPE
Author : NHJ
MSN: crescent_cage@hotmail.com
email : spherickey@gmail.com
Other Blogsites
MRH
Yeoks
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Iskandar
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echoncyllan
Before Gargoyle
One Million Footnotes
Read My Poetry.
Playing:
Between the Bars (Elliott Smith Cover) by Metric
Sunday, January 29, 2006
such a pleasant coincidence to read Sylvia Plath and coming across thoughts that mirror my own in a way in my previous entry. she wrote,
I am part man, and I notice women's breasts and thighs with the calculation of a man choosing a mistress ... but that is the artist and the analytical attitude toward the female body ... for I am more a woman; even as I long for full breasts and a beautiful body, so do I abhor the sensuousness which they bring ... I desire the things which will destroy me in the end ...
and so often do i do that too. not desiring full breasts and a beautiful body but desiring the honesty of great men like the Prophet Muhammad s.a.w. and sad girl-writers like Sylvia Plath and fierce lovers like Rabiatul Adawiyah who wanted absolutely nothing in return of loving God. should i come close to this calibre of honesty, i catch a glimpse of what is inside of me and withdraw quickly into that sad little cave i build around myself to shelter my consciousness from truth. else i shrivel up and die in shame for the unworthy soul that occupies this body.
standing between me and greatness (or preferably freedom) are three massively ugly things: sloth, dishonesty and cowardice. three-pronged rivers of churning viscous black scum. and the desert of insecurity to cross. i am a long long way from contentment.
Posted by NHJ 1/29/2006 08:02:00 pm
Saturday, January 28, 2006
on girl-crushes.
fine, the secret shall be revealed: Susan Lee has an uncanny resemblance to Siti Roslinda. Siti was my first girl crush. i stopped liking her that way only because i was (and still am) jealous of the way she out-words me in three out of five slam poetry sessions. they have the same noses, eyes, mouths, complexion and hair. Siti must think i'm a creep which is not far from the truth. i cling to sad boys like Firdaus and murder any girl who is stupid enough to so much as give him a second glance and listen to sad sad mad mad songs and check if my teeth are alive and run from the green when i'm heady with caffeine and subject my boyfriend to severe emotional and mental torture when he dares to hurt me even if it is only slightly. and of course, i had like the biggest crush on Siti. it's freaky though, the way she likes to scrunch up her nose and suddenly look like a freaking pig. now when i am over that whole having a crush on a girl thing, this sarcastic, infuriatingly attractive Susan Lee just had to come along looking like ol' Linda and suddenly shed her skin to reveal a fey muse. driving me bonkers with her nonchalance and that electrifying raised eyebrow moment we had once in May.
then obsession with Connor Oberst of Bright Eyes and his oh so delicious quivering hormonal voice, the intellectual lust for strong dignified old men (think Anthony Hopkins) and my fierce possessiveness of my sad boyfriend Fir assured me i have not gone rainbow. homosexual that is. merely attracted to impossibly beguiling women like Siti and Ms Lee. if it is not written by God that homosexuality is immoral and unnatural, i may have strayed; inevitably confusing artistic fascination with sexual wants and romantic love. so yes, i'm a homophobe in the sense that i am terrified of becoming one. but i am not a bigot.
Posted by NHJ 1/28/2006 09:08:00 pm
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Matin.
Matin was in my dream last night not as the tall, fair and handsome man he is today, but the lanky, pale and geeky boy he was when i knew him. he appeared when everyone saw who i truly am and promptly left. even Firdaus. there was only Matin.
i pleaded to be taken home and he pulled me out of the ground, made of fake, hot snow. then he ran. swift and timidly, dragging me before him on the streets of the city.
the sun never rose again. the world was lit up by streetlights and the glowing eyes of sad vehicles. everyone was without a face.
while trying in vain to board a striped white train, we bumped into Seasky, absent of her beauty. she was in black and her cold gaze held no life. i turned away in tears as she brushed past. i felt her achingly. her name turned to black satine as it binded around my face and choked me in darkness. i called her by her real name. Susan. Susan Lee. Tuesdays. Tuesdays and Susan. what of today? why, Susan of course. always Susan. never Susan.
Matin tugged me away and saved me from my insane infatuations with mythical people. men and ladies swept by. we leapt over a maw where Tuesday used to be. my eyes were locked on Matin's face. Matin whom i have grown to love in a dream.
Amie, have i become the very thing you warned me of? a dreamer caged in her dream. a storyteller strangled by her intricate stories. why aren't you here with me then, Amie? why Matin? Matin. why Matin. why do i feel like i love him so much, as i would a brother and a friend? this feeling familiar. i wanted to embrace him but knew it was a deep wrong. Matin. Wahyu Hidayat's best friend, next to Fadilah and me. Wahyu's hatred burns.
Matin, his resemblance to Khairul beginning to chew me from the inside, stayed loyal by my side even though i sensed his heart far far away within the unbreakable clutches of a weeping girl. i tried pushing away the buried memory of Khai and his existence that pulled me down like a lie.
my hand gripped Matin's desperately and the feel of his damp, white hand felt too real. his cold fingers with its pink nails. his pale thin face was a comfort beyond words. i tried my hardest not to replace his tired, faithful face with the curls, specs and fair skin of Khai's. Khairul Khairul.
in the end, the world caught up and a couple of boys caught hold of Matin and started to pummel him. his hand was wrenched out of mine and he reached out pleadingly towards me but i cried and turned away to run. i was alone. Matin-less. Susan Lee's face branded evilly in my heart and a big Nothing grew where Matin and Firdaus were.
and the dream went on just like all my other nightmares. with running. running running. endlessly running. Matin. why am i running away from Matin?
Posted by NHJ 1/17/2006 09:52:00 am
Sunday, January 15, 2006
a teleconversation with Siti (Roslinda) always leaves my mind reeling with inferiority and deep confusion. she says the most obscure things and manage to somehow remain so sweet and innocent that it is close to impossible to let my burning jealousy of her wit and wisdom turn into resentment.
i have come to realise how bitter and indifferent i am towards writers who are in any way better than me, and those people probably make up 99.9% of the writing community.
often i am disgusted at myself. repelled at my inability to perform to my fullest potential. i go into childish tantrums that leave precious red notebooks in tatters and sketches of mind creatures end up crumpled and wet from being manhandled and spat at. there are nights where i sit up and lie myself to sleep, poisoning my head with dangerous fabrications that will leave me high with impossible dreams in the morning.
then a sweet girl like Siti comes along and innocently points out all the ugly aspects of my chosen solitude and undisciplined writing, with an unmistakable smile in her voice and a slight malice to her tones. it makes me tick and crumble and die.
yet i still revel in having friends such as her who makes it a point to pound me down to size and beat down my stupid stupid narcisissm.
i think i understand when a friend of mine refused resolutely to reject a certain companion for fear of loneliness. being alone means being with yourself. and there is no person worst being with other than with the you that you have kept hidden for so long. God knows what kind of unworthy bestial excuse of a person lurks beneath all those layers of insecurity and fear.
Posted by NHJ 1/15/2006 07:12:00 pm
Friday, January 13, 2006
Moth.a comical moth, black from the sun's singe did visit and touch its ink-snow wings upon my lips. thereupon turning it black as sky. with these ash lips i left a print upon your white shoulder.i know now the pride of Dita Panduka, my red fish friend as she swept her blooming tail into waves, creating currents in a bowl. i know now how much i loved her. though it would pain me so, i would feed her pages upon pages of the books that have brought me life and magic if only it meant she would stay with me forever more.perhaps then the bubbles that slip out of her proud mouth would pop in air and bring those stories to life. Dita Panduka is something special, she is.would that the world could flood over with fresh water and everyone grow gills, it would be smashing. Dita Panduka and i will speak the same language of gurgling glittering words and. no one will ever be certain again of the tears others shed. i say this as if they ever were.would that Dita Panduka could one day turn into a girl. or a boy. with the reddest of red hair blooming under the sun and eyes as black as a sun-singed moth wings. then it would be smashing. he will have a smile, soft and absolute. he will have teeth as sharp as the thorns in my side. he will have a white body with white shoulders.upon which, a kiss. a mark. from an oblivious moth who asked the sun to come up. nicely. and bringing life, dreams and stories to those who need it.
Posted by NHJ 1/13/2006 11:21:00 am
Monday, January 09, 2006
eyes tightly open
the monotony of routine weeks makes sleep come so easily. my unconscious existence is complete.
a typical day would now be waking up from sleep, walking blankly, sleeping on the train then on the bus, doing meaningless work, finishing meaningless work, sleeping on the bus, then the train, reaching home to pray, read and spend half of the night wide eyed and afraid of death.
the emptiness of my head has finally caused a bodily shutdown. it's a relief in a way. but it has made me sad.
Posted by NHJ 1/09/2006 06:24:00 pm
Sunday, January 08, 2006
today marks our thirtieth month together and also the first of all thirty months he has not and will not gush at the wonder of my existence in his life.
i zipped and hid away my mobile in case the urge to call one of the hermits to whine about my disintigerating heart, overcome and shame me. they would sneer at these blank white pages, my steady voice and dry cheeks.
so sunday came and it was just sitting, with the rain pattering meekly upon the roof and a baby with the softest curls resting her sleeping head upon my breast. as the wind blew those precious curls upon my still lips, i thought, this is a perfect moment.
transforming unwillingly from an authoritative, regal scribbler to a shaking, sobbing girl, there were shuddering hisses of i don't want to belong anywhere anymore.
Posted by NHJ 1/08/2006 06:44:00 pm