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Coming Home

If there is one constant emotional response that my mind and body has conjured since coming back to Indonesia, it is anger. The reasons are plentiful. Chronic social and economic injustice, growing government oppression, sheer incompetency of many government officials, religious conservatism, as the proverbial saying goes, the list goes on.
And now with the coronavirus devastatingly consuming Indonesia and my government’s response has not only been weak and slow, lacking in coordination, but also simply at many times blatantly incompetent, anti-science and anti-expertise, resulting in the deaths of many including doctors and nurses, and with no full lockdowns initiated, no mass testing, just some half-baked government encouragement to physical distancing and good hygiene. I’ve observed that this time not only am I consumed with fervent anger but at many times deep sadness and crippling fear. An unholy trinity. In the name of anger, sadness and lingering fear.
Here’s some trivia and personal info for you folks. Did you know that Tuberculosis (TB) usually leaves scars on lungs it once infected and even though it’s been decades since my bout with TB, my lungs today, as you might expect, are not in tip-top shape. So that’s my pre-existing condition that at times, at many times, throws me into a panic and into a sudden cleaning spree. Wipe here, wipe there, disinfect door knobs, drowning recently handled money in warm soapy water. Irrational fear? On the contrary my beautiful friends. Indonesia has one of the highest Covid death rates in the world and with Covid patients on the rise but not at its peak, our already sparse healthcare system is already showing its cracks. Again, just to remind you, Indonesia is not even near the peak and we’re not even doing massive tests but everything is already hanging on a thread. Adding to this misery, the lack of some kind of social safety net has this climate of dread creeping up on me, this I acknowledge and I am trying as much as I can in keeping this at bay. Dread induced paralysis is not something I can to endure at the moment.
That’s some personal (slightly existential) rant right there.
But I understand that I’m lucky and painfully privileged to be able to work from home unlike so many others. So since at this moment my productivity rate is reaching zero and I’m basically pushing away work and other responsibilities as much as I can (which will probably come back and haunt me soon), let me just first reflect on life at the moment, updates on other things aside from this feeling of impending doom.
I’ve realized that I do not update this blog of mine as often as I would like to. Desires are kept as desires, and slowly wither away as desires. Yet as 2020 dawned on me and ages with uncertainty I spent my time re-reading old books that I have read many years ago and some of my old blog posts as well. Beginning with my first blog post which is now the ripe old age of 10 years old. One decade old. With the breakneck speed of change of today’s internet, 10 years is perhaps close to immortality in internet years. That being said, I still use Hotmail for my main email which I’ve had since 1998, the year I was introduced to the internet...and politics.
It was 13th of May 1998. I was at home with my dad as schools and offices were closed. The day before that soldiers opened fire at a student demonstration in front the University of Trisakti, Jakarta. Four students were killed, riots and demonstrations were happening everywhere the following day. So most people decided to stay home.
I remember my dad narrating the 1998 May protests as we attentively watched the event unravel through our old school CRT TV. My dad was thankfully percipient enough to refuse to go to his office during that week, but he did have friends in high places so it wasn’t much of a surprise if he received some kind of insiders info. I was about 12 years young at that time, on the cusp of teen hood. Puberty was on my mind, but that moment of watching a historical event unfold (which of course I did not understand it as something momentous) with my dad explaining with excitement of what was going on, even though I sure as hell did not understand the most of it, was illuminating. A father and son bonding session as result of reformasi. That sounded like a thesis topic: Family Relations and Social Change: Exploring Familial Relations through the 1998 Reformasi. (Hah!)
It did however shape my values and ideas that I still hold on to this day not only on politics per se but what I wanted or expected from this thing called the nation-state. I have to say that the May 1998 riots and demonstrations, the visualization of the riots on TV and my dad narrating in the background constantly interrupting the reporter, was the reason why I remember that day so clear. It made an indelible mark on me. I can’t even begin to imagine the impact to those who were physically effected by the riots, houses and stores burned down, people being raped and/or murdered..
About a week after the riots, on the 21st of May 1998 President Soeharto resigned after 32 years in power. I saw my dad cheering, again not fully grasping the reasons why, although he did try his best to explain. But it piqued my interest in politics, and being told that this this new thing (really new for me at that time) called the internet had much to offer about what was happening then, a few weeks after that, using my mom’s 36.6 kbps dial-up modem that I was awfully proud of, I registered for a shiny new Hotmail account. In hopes of joining mailing lists.
Wasantara-net, owned by Indonesia’s postal service, was my family’s choice for the internet service provider. I hated them as they were first-class in unreliability, but they were the only providers to be able to connect my house, on the edge of bogor, to the world wide web. My first few emails, if again I remember correctly, were chain mails about the May riots that I subscribed through questionable mIRC chats. Chats that start with A/S/L, age, sex, location, and either ends in hook ups, or being involved in something you’re too young or ignorant to fully understand.
Being young(er) and wanting to be part of something important is such a motivating factor in us actually doing and becoming something. With Carl Gustav Jung in mind, being young or old, we are but “modern man in search of meaning” and being part of something greater than ourselves does still give me meaning.
Fast forward a few decades, I’ve noticed that you get a raised eyebrow when you tell people that you’ve been using the same email for more than 20 years now, and you get double raised eyebrows and an instance of wincing, once they find out that said email is a Hotmail account. I am coming up with less and less excuses of why I haven’t migrated fully to other emails. But hey, you know what they say, habit brings comfort, repetition brings comfort, knowledge that arises from experience, from personal history, brings comfort. Although not always, the past brings comfort, while the future which is riddled with unpredictability is lamented and brings worry if not angst. Comfort though, I have come to understand, brings laziness and at many times dullness.

It is however always interesting looking at one’s own past and how it is intertwined with the past of others. I think I’ve written about this a number of times, and most of my writings are born from the act of retrospect. I often assume that I would not be able to talk about my future if I never look at my past, but what also happens is that I also end up talking more about my past or at the very most my present rather than talking/thinking about my future. Is that bad? Is that good? Am I shying away from discussions about my particular future? Maybe, I don’t have an answer to that now. But I know it’s there, tucked away in the back of my mind so I’ll probably talk more about that someday. And with Covid-19 destroying all of my plans in the near future that someday will probably come sooner.
Coming home to Indonesia, after a number of years abroad, I have also come to realize, sadly, that many of my social activities here in this space which I reluctantly call home, are more often than not, performative acts that I do not like performing for. I am basically faking it and I am doing this by fulfilling a cultural and social role that I necessarily do not have strong feelings for, or even just feelings for, but I have adapted myself into it. Somewhat. The reason why I do this is simply out of respect of others. Things that do not give meaning for me, has often been deeply meaningful for others and expressing it verbally does not bode well for maintaining relationships. I am happy to say that I have Rara to remind me when I have become too logical (I am happy to say that I have Rara to remind about many things in life) in understanding the meaning of culture for many. But it is, simply put, not without its personal struggles.
Being a son, being a son-in-law, being a younger and the youngest child in a family oriented, confuscianist-style, hierarchical, the-individual-is-constantly-attached-to-the-social kind of society. And then being a husband in a patriarchal society, where I am expected to fill a kind of leadership role that tires, bores and disinterests me.
(On a side note: for some reason, I have often come across this odd discussion of alpha/beta male/female amongst my peers here. Which I find interesting as it denotes a fixation to hierarchy and also the assumption of fixed temperaments/personalities of an individual across space and time. Are they basically saying that agency of one’s self perceived to be rarely possible? Is change and adapting to a situation impossible? )
Then without doubt as a citizen of a nation that I superficially identify with. How can I ever identify with a nation that happily and openly oppresses others for the sake of unity? And not only rarely admits it but even more rare tries to amend it. It is a simple rhetorical question.
In sum, I have to be honest with myself here, coming back home to Indonesia is not home for me and I don’t think it will ever be one. It is more of a burden than something that brings joy.
The food is great here and I have my family here which is also nice but life of course is much, much more than just culinary preferences or familial ties. I am losing my sense of self here, and it is destructive for me. I am losing myself.
Fully realizing this I was looking for a sense of direction when I reread some of my old already read books that once inspired and also my old blog posts these past few weeks. At the crux of it, this blog has always been for me. It is shared publicly in hopes of others sharing what they have learned through life and what I have done wrong in my life. And I have done many wrongs that have not been righted, some no longer even have the possibility of being righted.
Rereading my blog, I realize much like others, that our attempts in finding meaning, and our meanings when they are found are frail and delicate. It is constantly assailed and it is easily lost, and at times harder to find when lost. Life it seems always tries its best to rob you of meaning. Not because it is intent in doing so, but because the very nature of life is in its impermanence. Everything is impermanent including meaning itself.
Intellectually and experientially I understand this. But again like many, I’ve still tried to find meaning in others, and much like many I’ve lost these people in which I have found meaning in. This is the constant dillema as naturally social creatures.
It is perhaps in our nature to be contradictory, or to live in denial, to assume that meaning and the people or objects that give meaning is eternal.
Some of these people that I have acquired meaning from I have forever lost through death, much like so many people out there. I have also lost some rather unintentionally, such as due to spoken words that are not carefully thought out. Some by design, on purpose, with deep intent and thoroughly planned with precision execution, slowly letting go. At other times, a harsh break, a rude awakening on both ends, yet ending in a sigh of relief. As some relationships, although lush with wonderful memories, are never meant to last and can never be let to live in the future. Memories that remain as memories, stories of the past, that do not become worries of the present nor burdens of the future. Our understanding of meaning is often forced to change and to morph and at many times, to end. People and things that once provided meaning no longer do, as people and the things around us change. People including me.
I’ve changed, I know I’ve changed, I’m quieter yet more angry of the world, hopefully a bit more thoughtful of my words and actions. But one thing that hasn’t changed is how I am not done with grief, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be done with it. I’m not even sure if it’s actually grief. Because we all know that the tragedy of growing old, is the tragedy of unwillingly filling your life with regrets and maybe my grief is but a thin veil for my regrets.
One of my plants in my garden died today. A lush rosella bush that I was hoping to make some tea out of its beautiful red flowers. The days are drawing long, and hope is few and far in between.
Be well everyone.

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tmq excerpt
The tunnel eventually branched out into a large cavern. It was empty, save for a large pool to the right side. The air here was warmer. Not as warm as Tierani, or Mynera, but… warm like the tower. A reprieve from the freezing outside temperature. The pool was surrounded by stalagmites, and above it hung stalactites, in the same half-circle ring. The pool itself was… odd. It’s surface was as smooth as ice, only breaking occasionally as water dripped from the ceiling. It’s color… was akin to a mirror, laid flat on the ground, with the sun shining on it.
To the left, across from the pool, was an empty chapel area. Rotten wooden benches sat in rows. A stone platform rose out of the floor, with a wooden stand on it. A faded banner hung behind it, over an alter.
Talitha and Alinora shared a glance, and, without speaking, decided to approach the platform and its alter.
On the alter was a stone statue.It was a beautifully carved woman. Her arms were extended wide, her palms up to the ceiling, her face warm and open. Her dress had been carved to look as if it was translucent, though many of the more intimate details had been left out. At her feet was an empty basket, though Alinora imagined it had once been full of flowers. Around the basket were coins; beautifully carved rocks; pieces of jewelry; and gems.
“Do you know who this is supposed to be?” Alinora had never seen a woman carved like this before.
Talitha shook her head. “She could be the Anarian interpretation of Hope, maybe? Or one of the Vanguard. She looks like she could be Love, maybe.” Talitha touched the flowers in the woman’s hair. She turned around. “Hey. It’s another book.”
Alinora turned.
It laid open on the podium. Talitha approached. “Maybe this will tell us who she’s supposed to be, and what this place is.”
“And we can figure out if we went the right direction.”
Talitha touched the pages gently, examining it carefully. When she was satisfied with whatever she’d been looking for, she flipped to the beginning, and started scanning. As she did, Alinora started looking through the offerings.
“Have you ever heard of someone named ‘Mesaia’?” Talitha asked after a moment.
Before Mynera’s fall, Alinora had attended sermons every week at the temple. She wasn’t the most religious person, but she believed. Mynera’s matron goddess was Hope. Alinora had grown up hearing tales of Hope, and her Vanguard. There had been a smaller temple devoted to Death, and Alinora had learned a little of him and his Reapers, as well. Ethari’s abilities came from Moira, weaver of Fate, and so Alinora had learned of her as well.
But in none of her teachings had she ever learned of someone named Mesaia.
Alinora shook her head. “No. I’ve never heard of her. What’s it say?”
“It’s a bunch of… poems? Songs? Devoted to someone named Mesaia. There’s a few passages in here too. It talks about her and… a spider? No. It’s a title. A name?” Talitha shook her head. “It says that the Spider fought Mesaia and someone named Mirce. Mirce was killed, so Mesaia fled, and the Spider remained. Now Mesaia sleeps somewhere ‘in the dark,’ waiting for the day when Mirce finishes regenerating and they can kill the Spider once and for all. It doesn’t say what they believed she could do, though. Actually, they seem to be talking in circles around certain words. Like the Spider’s real name. I’d need more time to study it to tell.”
Alinora’s heart pounded.
The Spider.
That’s what Elaena had called Fate—had called Moira.
Her mouth was dry. She wondered if Elaena knew about this—about this Mesaia.
And then she remembered. The matron. Viviana mentioned someone named the matron. Could that… Could it be Mesaia?
“Talitha.”
The woman turned, brows knitted in concern. Alinora’s voice was cracked, and broken. “Are you—”
Alinora held up her hand, and pointed at the book. “Anywhere in there, is Mesaia referred to as the matron?”
taglist: @quartzses; @idreamonpaper; @runningonrain; @queenofsquirrelsstuff; @witchywrite; @margaretcroftwrites (gimme a shout if you’d like to be added or removed!!)
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——— 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒 !
name! Armin pronouns! he/him or she/her ( I prefer the he/him tho) zodiac sign! Scorpio taken or single! married to myself
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1! I have an MD in management and leadership although I´m a natural leader, people tends to follow me because I know how to make them feel included and I like it. I´m not a very popular person but I´m usually the most respected and my word always counts. 2! I wanted to be a sea biologist when I was a little kid also, I´ve always very interested in biology so I know a lot of facts about zoology and anatomy ( my two favorite biology branches) 3! I have a very scatological and irreverent sense of humor.
——— 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 !
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female or male! males, all my muses are males. I enjoy rping female muses but I don´t think I am that good with them. least favorite face(s)! Mmmm I don´t really go for FCs.. I guess it depends cause I don´t really like to humanize my muses but.. I don´t feel comfortable with people that uses youtubers or influencers as faceclaims, nothing personal tho. multi or single! right now I´m trying with a multi to see how things go. I don´t have a preference though. fluff / angst / smut! SMUT! Eh I mean, all all of them *cough* no seriously besides fluff angst also and smut, I adore action sequence and crack, campy threads too and slice of life, this question is too limited! plot / memes! i am def a plotter, I function better with a plot. Waaay better. I don´t really follow it cause I could have a plan but the muses can be little rebels or just capricious so they end changing things but at least to have a scheme of what I´m going to do it helps a lot!! Plot with me, even if we don´t get to follow the plot step by step it helps quite a lot, trust me.
tagged by! I snagged it from @blindedxthelight cuz she said I could :) tagging! You, and please tag me if you want cause I´d like to read.
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