ORIGIN mid 19th century:
from French altruisme, from Italian altrui ‘somebody else,’ from Latin alteri huic ‘to this other’.

I wanted to save myself, so I thought I’d save a lady. This biased altruism bears semblance to what I asked my prof one lecture. Is what Assange is doing an act of biased altruism? He is trying to do good in spite of all the restrictions, and now that he surfaced the truth to the world out, he is accused of violating the laws and what is proper. If so, how can altruism be so biased? How can measures be so poles apart, standards so deviated? How is it so hard to make a point on filthy truth, on rigged practice, on detrimental fall-out, on possible wrecked fortune?

But clearly I wasn’t to engage in that kind of discussion with this lady. One night in the lake she almost drowned herself, reaching her, I said you’re gorgeous, you’re gorgeous, she looked right up into my terrified eyes, she gave in. Her following steps were my granted intention, my ease. But for some bodyheat offered, some coldness rejects. Wheels off, sirens on, stretcher up, bedridden.

You’re gorgeous. Some philanthropic words said in such an honest manner. This man was like a terror, where every confusion bombarded, every bewilderment charmed. Are you sure? Glances were thrown and: you’re gorgeous, look at you. No I can’t look at myself, I can never do that, I’ve been thinking and contemplating and wanting with every ounce of my God-created limb to see myself in 360 degrees, but: I can’t. You’re gorgeous. Looking right up into the eyes of ice, some just gave in.

If kindness is worth so much in memories, why does it not defeat unkindness? Which part of our brain is gone unused – otherwise how would it fit a new memory, day after day after day, and still not losing any single dire recollection?

So how do we save ourselves? By saving other people too? What about the future, what happens in the future when within our altruistic actions we end up harming ourselves? Will that count too? Discarding transparent balaclavas, downloading carnivals on the most real of commission, lunching on some rapid kisses and sound snow jobs. All through the salvage of this lady, she who almost drowned herself.

To this other, you’re gorgeous, you’re gorgeous.

2011, 2013.



some little grace on me. row rickety raggy bones down in the spheric of bright eyes. that dude who goes aggro, come on soapbox all that’s left is a pot of hearty gold. back and forth, back and forth, murder your worth. like half of exotic locale and demonic morale we seep in the kinked of royales. groucho groucho were you really macho.


as i post this, out comes “The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.” Gustave Flaubert – on the sidebar. downright funny, cause it cannot be any more wrong. i do nonsense. some i don’t comprehend let alone believe in. discovery. what discovery? writing is creation, a play. it’s after-thoughts, a clay.

Dedicating: Dream

Tulisan ke-65 ini untuk mimpi.

Tadi malam, ruang televisi berubah. Dulu sofa panjang depan dinding, mata lurus layar hitam. Ruang kotak langit-langit rendah pintu geser transparan menuju hutan. Tadi malam, delapan kursi dan meja kecil berpasangan. Acak. Tersebar. Seperti kafe, duduk berdua-dua, tapi dalam rumah. Ingin ada wangi kopi tapi cuma saus tiram yang tercium. Ada pria membaca koran. Menghadap hutan. Ke mana matanya tertuju aku tak tahu. Huruf padat, atau pohon belantara. Tangannya terbentang.

Aku seperti kamera CCTV. Sorot atas, statis.

Tadi malam, dapur tak berubah. Hanya, ada dua pasang kursi dan meja di antara kulkas dan mesin cucipiring. Tatanya canggung sekali. Karton coklat bersender di samping sekat. Tapi tadi malam, aku hanya lensa biasa.

Mana kehidupanmu. Ruang ini ramai dengan debu. Partikel perhentian. Kaki-kaki dingin. Bantal sofa hilang. Teater berlensa. Hingga pagi, hutan dan layar hitam terdiam.

Lalu aku menjadi lampu taman. Sorot bawah, hidup.

My Ambidextrous Apparition

On rare occasions I would dig and find, On strange days I would be unearthed and led, On dying times, never both and complete, On an opened spring I hunt, hunt, hunt, till they appear, On mornings so blasé I bend a machine, beep beep, barcoded, bagged and beloved, On centred nights rambling man arrives knocking, tip-toeing, remaining unnamed, On this land, and the lands across, everyone recasts expressions, weak be strong, I be you, halves be one, rocks be creatures, running water marries salty tears. On discreet comments, grudging girlfriends and veiled women, making peace, On sleeping bats upon the gnomes, the black tulips, the motels and the suites, On Fire, On Fire!, On scaling with their left, carrying weights with their enemy-cum-ally right, each venturing on harmony, On plastics fitting both hands, interchangeable, partaking in equality, trading sans submissiveness, On things complex, On things we mean simple, On words written, On eyes be so studious, On things we tell our heads, On hearts resorting, thoughts discerning, On believing things we only see and seeing things we only believe, may the right always be right and left be the ease of itself.


I set the time to vanish, thus travelling through the tunnel with just my newly-born omnipotence. Sometimes it’s liberating to behave as if there was not one second chasing you down for every tick. And its tock. And their giant, crowded family of minutes, hours, days. Voluntarily losing contact with the pitch-black night and welcoming a surrogate for silence. Colours, characters, diagrams and lines inflicted all kinds of hullabaloos inside your own darkish tunnel. And with all that kind of war, you won’t believe it’s past 3, because time still will not exist then. Like it was a muted, near-fictional concept. Time is dead. It’s resting comfortably in its own life-size coffin, uninterrupted.

I overheard a lady this morning. It was rather a serious statement. She asserted that there’s this growth of interest in history, or past, for the last few decades in contemporary public. It is a pervasive sense of life of current generation. People are riveted in studying archive, record, data and all that history; rather than the future, the direction we’re all actually going. I was even more captivated when she presumed that all of it is the byproduct of the decline in religion. Why? This time I didn’t catch her whys and wherefores as I started to spill coffee on my lap, halving the concentration.

Are we becoming more pessimistic on what lies ahead in time? Do we opt for easy disbelief because of the myriad detrimental events and happenings that have sent us great suffer? Do we think this subject of heaven and hell (or the afterlife, for that matter) is too distant, too far-fetched to be investigated right now? Far out, not even all of us believes in those two seemingly ultimate destinations.

Or maybe because it’s just easier to talk about something that we already know than something that we don’t.


Let’s build a little empire in the woods and pretend you’re The King and I’m The Queen. You can wear your cape and crown, I’ll wear my tiara and pearl earrings. We can light up a bonfire, stare at the stars, and you can flood me with your regal stories. We will fake the heavy accents and think of Versailles. We may not have our own garden let alone a sovereign chateau, but we can lay over brown autumn leaves and feel the fire heat. An unseen royal banquet with bags of marshmallows between the tall trees. We govern our own miniscule monarchy like Elizabeth, we reign over the woods. And between the branches, we shall be on the throne of the non-existent, silent mass.

Oh, little dynasty.

Frothy Thoughts

Awkward digressions on an instant shake. Borderline quirks can’t buy me a yes. Go take them out of the tasteless fear… Go and finally disappear, go fall apart in love and hope. Draw the curtain close, allow your cryptic theories loose, she’s workin the multiple answers. Reset, reset, fast forward, rewind, pause, eject. He was an undeclared robber of opportunities, thus the empty, shady alleys. Secrets, stories, lies they never knew. Enemies melt in timely smiles and fire and grimace of pain. Littered bottles of anticipation sink in deep. One to break. There is always an image in her story – dry lips and burnt foreheads. A rebel to the core.