Roses in Riot

[surfergirl]

it was as if i had grown a jungle of chaotic sentences, phrases, words, letters, in my troubled head. secret of riot. I was not supposed to tell anyone about. it was like having bruises and scars of failed expectations, abandoned dreams, massive angers, worthless thoughts, hidden affection, nothing makes senses. these bloody nothing-makes-senses got to be repressed by everything-more-optimistic: going to university, getting a fine job, making money, marrying a man with future, a happy family. every normal things done by normal women.

sometimes they occupy my head, true. not because i really want it, but they are the easiest path i know.and the easiest one is the most tempting one. true. i have seen how they have worked out for every person i know.
everyone but me.

i want to write. perhaps, i want to be read also.
some says i want to be a writer. very few can tell that i want to be me. most of the people just have no idea. they probably think i'm too plain to be treasured. in some of her bad-tempered moments, my mom would say how i was not supposed to exist. how she should swallowed me back to her womb. yes, mom. in a sense, i was made from your own fault, i would reply her logically. by heart. since i could not blame God, but too sensible to blame myself, who else to blame? but i was not that innocent to throw stone to a God's-sweetheart-Magdalena. so i just keep my thought for myself. along with the rest of my chaotic jungle. another bruise under my sleeve.

[surfergirl]

in the place where words come alive and true, i feel wanted. i feel strangely loved. but with your feet on the ground, it is hard not to kill it with lies. filthy lies. smart lies. white lies. and i feel anything but myself. it's just odd, how you have to be nowhere in this earth just to be yourself, and loved. and with this, it's just so natural that earth are full of practical killers instead of human being.

my dad would be the one to blame for the passion i had for fiction. most of the books he bought for the child-version-me were already gone. into trash, into soil, into another life-cycle. but i've grown their words inside me. into bruises and scars that overtook the formula of physics. in high school, i discovered that i got not even a bit of Einstein's brain. instead, i got a silent tumor of nonsense art inside my brain.

i believed i was foolish, and i am still. the tumor grew rapidly as i chose this bloody field: English Literature. that's my major. the minor is World Wide Web. from the perfect Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie's world, i moved into the glowing ecstatic hell of Dickens, Fitzgerald, Kerouac, Plath. while everybody were mingling with girls' gang, gigs, dating, goodlooking boys with some available seats in their cars, i was happy enough to share my introvert-self with strangers in chatrooms. my best friend was a tough girl from another faculty who often cut class just to be online. my best friend, still. Mai is the only person i know who could memorize 10-digit numbers in only few seconds, as easy as swallowing her own saliva. but i wasn't surprised when she gave up her triumphant math field at our second year for another more promising subject: law.

[surfergirl]

i try not to think why i need to read such things as Great Expectations. it will give me awful and kind of guilty feeling for having such luxury in the midst of crisis, real life. fiction is luxury, treasure full of jewelries. sometimes it is god whose verses are more gleaming than bible. but, yes, thinking of the haunting Miss Havisham, the wishful Pip, the perpetual Estella, gives this plain girl a scarce spot of light on her dim bed's corner. years before reading the book, she'd already had a date with Dickens through satellite which delivered the enchanting world of "ours were marshes" into her blessed TV-screen. long before i knew Dickens, long before Dickens was born, long before war, history, and civilization, i had fallen in love.

Romance is dreadful. Opposite sex is vapid. i was too young when i figured out the way to please myself. mybody. i wasn't guided by anyone, except me. nothing, except instinct. my fingers came before boys, since i was quite late in starting my love-life. my plump figure was out of fashion, keeping away the possibilities and chemistry. so, the moment it approached me, even touched, embraced, and let me in, i got frantic inside. too nervous for orgasm. two tounges. two mouths. walls of voices. one fuck. more than enough. i threw the dice. again. again. it was almost like being in someone else's life. i was tangled in my own fantasy: a stranger, single (any stranger would look like single--more or less), naive, young and inexperienced. somebody that will be a perfect bitch. it was terribly perfect, till i suddenly run out of luck. false number. tongues and hands were pulled back, vanished. my adventure ended. me--silent once again. that's how i met Her.

[surfergirl]

there was a wild garden of poetry inside my dangling jungle. i came full of thorns when i encountered the first blossomed rose. it took some thorns out of me and pinned them onto her slender stem. my heart went trembling allover. i let go a long grey cry. noone came to soothe me. but more roses were blooming and more thorns were taken. i was standing bare, beast, with what were left: wounds--opening wide to the wild garden.

Her name is Dorothea. the first rose that took my thorns. the first rose that saw my wounds. deadly gorgeous. she speaks of men like nowomen ever did. not the ones i know, at least. she speaks of herself, but it feels like she speaks of me. for years, i spent my lonely hours at this wild garden full of roses, learning how to speak of myself. and finally, speak for myself. it was never easy, for as soon as i get out of the garden, i had to put on my clothes, saying nice things for everyone. i felt a sudden cramp somewhere underneath my breasts. Dorothea smiled somewhere in nowhere.

so, this is how it all begins. i wrote down this out of the riot that bursted of my heavy silence. i got no plan for the ending, though. the only thing i got is these bloody roses. there's no sweet love neither swell forever. but perhaps i could took you there. there, where u have hid those bruises and scars from my mortal eyes.

oh my lovely poetic little surfie.
i like reading what lies beneath your chaotic yet poetic head though.
tell me a bit, is this Roses in Riot is your works or you copy paste from your fav. writer?
forgive my ignorance.

you know what, i was thinking and stil am now to give you a proposal... not to marry you, god bless i stil am hetero, but to publish your writings... together with mine :-)
You just write, I finance you.

[begawan]

payah....

[eLiZa]

kok payah?

[surfergirl]

ohohoho

yes, i copy paste it... from my own writings
something moved my right hand last night, harhahrahra....

ma lygia, tell me more bout the proposal...

eliza, si begawan pan kaga bisa english

[begawan]

gw bisa terjemahin kok
kesimpulannya : DEPRESI

[surfergirl]

harharhah

depresi cuman sampingan, yg paling utama tuh sarap.

[homer]

It's damn hilariuos
some part remind me on holden maybe wurtzel.
agree, someone must publish your work..it's a new style among that so so feminist writer.
even though you haven't seen the ending but i hope it will continue till you've got enough pages to publish.

surfer writing knows no ends... and it's better be so.
so i can keep publish, publish, gain money, she gain royalties again and again and again
isn't an awesome thought dear cucu?

[surfergirl]

considering our capitalist side...
where will u publish it ma... i have no idea who's gonna read that kind of "trash" in this lovely country of yours...

rrrr, holden ma wurtzel siapa seh, hom??
n i hope i don't sound feminist or wotsoeper...

we publish it in Jakarta of course.
we'll make a bombastic title and cover, well, leave that part for me, huh? ;-) Old granny knows how to attract people outside there. hehehe...

[homer]

Originally posted by surfergirl
rrrr, holden ma wurtzel siapa seh, hom??
n i hope i don't sound feminist or wotsoeper...

loe dah baca plath sama kerouac tapi belum baca catcher in the rye, keterlaluan kau
gak feminist kok.

memoir yah?