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Somebody I know, whose name (Eddie Wagenknecht) I have sworn to never ever leak out to the unsuspecting public, told me on a foggy morning that I have to give you a sort of prologue here before we go anywhere.

The anonymous tipper (Eddie Wagenknecht) was, as a matter of course, giving me a sound advice, because frankly it has been one Godzilla of an annoyance to me all these cyberyears that people almost never believed that I told them the truth when I said I write for a living.

Well, that is alright, even logical, if I was disbelieved after being read; but like the keen observant friend who chose to remain obscure (Eddie Wagenknecht) has correctly stated, getting disbelieved in the first encounter drives me nuts.

Another sound advice was for me to lie about my job whenever a kind stranger (Eddie Wagenknecht) asked what my occupation is -- like, I could say I'm a juggler, housebreaker, Lorena Bobbit II, which, to the farthest extent of my private grief, always be believed.

But I opt for the decidedly worse: I am here again telling you that my job, whether you ask me or not about it, is writing.

Online, you find all sorts of people posting written evidence that they write; they are accountants for some multinational corporations, technical advisors of the IBM, line supervisors of Disney, Co., Chicago homemakers and Mormon activists and persons on the lam and God (or Eddie Wagenknecht) knows whoever else -- I, on the other hand, do not do anything else to get money for but sitting in front of a personal computer, getting "this program has performed an illegal operation" prompt every ten seconds, all the while basking in the radiation that one day would probably dull my senses. It already did; I lost my commonsense a long long time ago. The Indonesian power supply company knows this predicament -- so it cut the electricity once every very truly short while, invariably when you haven't saved the file and the deadline is, like, twenty minutes from then. The company is smitten by some remarkable degree of nostalgy for the Dark Ages, and, being among the gregariously friendly Asians, it sincerely must share the reminiscence with the entire population. Darkness, thus, comes anytime without warning to keep the element of surprise, and it's fond of leaving computer-related workers in a suspense that sometimes mounts into a thriller of a mass nervous breakdown.

I worked for a publishing house for 7 years until the end of last century, but afterwards I'm in the blissful state of pseudo-unemployment (according to the government of the Republic of Indonesia) -- namely I freelance. This means, in my case, I get up whenever, do whatever, and go to bed however. From time to time this only lifestyle that suits me got interrupted by phone calls, emails or visits that are tailed by radiation sessions -- I got to get down and turn the computer on again for some length of time until the deadline has passed and finish some manuscript -- original or translation of some sort [click here for detailed description]. Or I was offered free undrinkable coffee, free tiny weeny lunch and loads of paying Homo sapiens -- i.e. when I had to talk in a public discussion, seminar or workshop.

Oculists aren't needed to see that I'm not a celeb in the area, but the fact stubbornly says that I anyway write a little bit more than on picture postcards hurriedly sent at the last minute upon vacation. Generally the government considers me and more or less everybody in my neighborhood 'unemployed', but miraculously they still find it logical to income-tax us nonetheless [click here for a glimpse of my comrades-in-tax].

Well, that was supposed to be the prologue that I was supposed to write; if this still doesn't do I would really consider planting turnips in Missouri.

Like most writers, I work at home. It's the job that's best for me, since it dismisses the possibility of getting up too early, getting home too late, and getting off the stairs headfirst because I and whoever invented the high-heeled shoes are in an eternal war. This job also saves lipstick.

The forbidden terra in the house is the library. I consider anybody who walks in when I am there as trespassing. In some states they can get electrocuted. This room is the location of my computer and stuff related to my so-called job; I work there. Even cats are not welcome in certain moments of the day.

When I moved into this house some years ago I took around six thousand books with me. Gradually I resized the library; I gave chunks of it away to village public libraries. My wish is to keep only the books I love - and to cut the number kept in this room to the minimum. Some individuals have also been so kind as to help me to get rid of some books - unfortunately these most of the time were the books I didn't want to part with.

Just because I automatically am a reader, doesn't mean I will be thrilled to get books for free. But there is no way to tell people that they should never give me books as gifts; and it is beyond impossible to say this to fellow authors. And even my family has no idea what books are there that I would love to get and read.

So I guess from time to time I still have to clean this room up.

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PICTURE GALLERIES

My job etcetera	So I Do The Write Thing	Snobs & So On	Phantom Deli
MY BOOKS	Colors Of The Collars	F----Off When I Work!	Pulp Jackets
	Shop Talk	Of Gods & Dogs	Offline Ink Jobs

I'm not a coffee lover. I'm merely a coffee drinker.

For at least the last four years I have become so lazy in this occupation, I only take instant, "3 in 1" coffee plus sugar plus cream that comes in little one-dose sachets.

While I acknowledged the very personal value we put into certain things -- a Zippo lighter, a Swiss Army knife, a towel, a toothbrush, and a coffee mug, the related stuff isn't so: those things spell each of our Selves and even if we give them to somebody else the acquired personality would still linger there around the edge of the dagger and the surface of the lighter -- but the cigarettes, the skinned fruit and the coffee are generic.

And this comes out of one head (mine) that tends to get sentimental about any thing -- to me, most things are personality-bearer. But, again, coffee, while there is a distinct personal taste, isn't an object of such an attachment -- nothing that could be consumed is, in my opinion.

The pic above these lines shows my Nuno (b. February 14, 2001). The one at the right side, among the trinkets, is Nuno's little brother, Tortilla (b. February 18, 2002). People call him 'Totti' just to fit his name into the overall scheme of cat-naming in this area; all others are named after footballers. (Francesco Totti is an Italian Serie A player, captain of A.S. Roma). Totti isn't as good-looking as Nuno, but he's a zillion times warmer, friendlier, and the most loving cat I've ever encountered. This statement counts, you know, because I always live with cats since I was, like, 3 year-old.

I don't belong to the animal lovers' compound, first of all I must say. Yes, I live with approximately fourteen cats in rainy days and as many as six in dry seasons (I'm never sure how many or how come), but I am not an animal lover. Not even a cat lover. It is rare that I might look up or look down and say "Oh, look how cute you are, kitty kitty goo" or something. If I am engaged in an attempt to communicate with the felines, this is what I say: "Now go mind your own d*** business while I'm writing insults to this Irishman", "Hey, check out the scores of last night's game, will you?", "Rather than looking like a licked stamp like that, why don't you find something to kill?"

I am merely a lover. And quite notorious in my little circle.

My walls are full of framed pictures of the nondescript sort, mostly collages and paintings. The front room walls are reserved for oil paintings and one gouache. The morning room and my bedroom are populated by football pictures. But since a bedroom is supposed to be private, some other pictures are there, too, like Todd Oldham's design, Tim Burton's animation, James Hetfield, Rurouni Kenshin, Chad Kroeger, and a large Emilio Estevez.

Except my mom, the rest of us are not 'family pictures' displayers. All photographs in my house are of cats. In my sister's house, herself. In my wallet I always keep a picture of an acoustic guitar and someone who pretended to be playing it when the photograph was taken.

I collect things. Once more, books are not in this category; I define 'collection' by uselessness.

I can hardly appreciate a book as a keepsake given by anyone, but trinkets and the usual keepsakes of no use whatever are very welcome.

I love wooden handicrafts, and I'm sort of nuts about wooden boxes. I also make them myself, along with wooden dolls, wall hangings, and such pseudo-artistic litter.

It took a lot of time to let people know that I will never like them to give me stuff like t-shirts, banners, metal works, records and books when they travelled and wished to be kind to me by bringing home keepsakes. Rather than getting the mutual disappointment, they'd better give me nothing if they don't get hold of anything made of wood.

About fine art.....I'm zillions of lightyears away from loving it. In fact I always think that the activities of exhibiting and selling and buying fine art objects should have been declared illegal, though the act of making them is shielded by the First Amendment -- unless it is the so-called 'installation art', 'video art' and above all else 'performance art', in which case the doers should have been either drafted into the Army or shipped to Mars.

Out of necessity, accidentally and automatically, I know artists and art galleries and art collectors and such exasperation, but this doesn't make me an art-lover of any sort. Not even after I wrote for and about artists and fine art. But if my password to heaven is said to be invalid without entering fine art, then I'd probably type down 'Ugo Untoro', 'Rudi Mantofani', 'Sekar Jatiningrum' and 'my little sister' [all of whom are Indonesian artists aged 30 something) plus 'Nara Yoshitomo' [a Japanese genius who's been, loathsomely to scores of observers, reeking too much of the scent of Mammon] as those whose (some of the) works I somehow, somewhat sorta like.

Untoro is unsurpassable as an art dollmaker, even though I can't stand his oil paintings after 1997; Mantofani's images circa 2000+ are exquisitely silent and poetic; Jatiningrum's pencil drawings are always beyond excellent whenever the schizophrenic hues in them are less than 25%; BJ's colors are superb as long as she doesn't forget the orthodox laws of perspectives; and Nara is, no matter how lamentably commercial he has become these days, a master in his genre.