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F----Off
When I Work! SEE
ALSO At least in jail you aren't bothered by people who come and go and ask you to spare them some coffee and knock over your cigarette while thrusting their dirty noses into your library for nothing pardonable as a reason why they don't just hang themselves - I just watched the film whose title I forget, last night, the one where Jane Grey and her equally clueless teenage hubby were locked up before they were executed by the loathsome Queen Mary - I positively envy them. Dramatization aside, it still is better to be in an old British dungeon waiting for someone to chop your head off for treason rather than being me in my own non-freedom. Raleigh wrote in jail, Wilde did, too - oh lucky them! X made me really mad a few minutes ago. He went here, into this room, seeing me turning all lights off my face, unmistakable signal that I would have loved to kick his fleshless butts out of this world, but you don't know X so you (I) had no idea that it needed more than delusion to make him a sane Javanese and f---- off at the slightest hint of displeasure. In fact X came here to protest against my work ethic. He said he isn't bothered by anybody else's presence when he works, he even loves companions when he works, he doesn't mind getting up to make them some drink and stops working if they want to chat. He believes that whatever he is everyone must be. X works at home. I do. My sister does. A and B and C and countless others do. But I am not them, and they are not X. I had put all signs against bothering me for anything at all whenever I am seen as sitting here in front of the computer in my very own private quarter - from signs hinting at a dangerzone to toxic trash to bold F--- OFF. Nothing ever works. They even come here to borrow the computer itself. Am I too weird to really get mad? YT, for instance, commented "You are too Westernized" just because I expect people to get out of my sight when I work. Privacy is of course not so known to us, Indonesians and Javanese in particular, but then again all these illiterate arboreal monkeys are artists for God's sake; still their communal fibers are something they believe to be in everybody including me. When I work, and that means whenever I turn on the PC, I want every living thing to stay away from me until the PC is turned off. I don't mind if they are elsewhere in the house; I am reasonable. But positively they are never to get into this one door to where I am. I don't mind the MTV and loud stupid jokes and such seeping through from other parts of the house - I would, of course, have been a zillion times happier if they don't exist at all, yet still I don't get up to kill those perpetrators. But they have never understood my wish to be left alone when I already stay away from them! Only LJ observes this rule - because he is a similar kind of person. And K because he is always scared of me even if (especially when) I smile at him. And C because I pay her to stay away when I work. And my sister because she would have to face my wrath longer than anyone else if she dared to bother me. All others are clones of X. They even think it is normal to ask me to stop working to mind THEIR works! Imagine that! B, for example, who marched into this room yesterday night and without even blinking said right away "You got to help me with this concept. My solo exhibition is next week and I am pestered by the gallery to hand the paperworks tomorrow. I can't think at all. I mean to say (bla bla bla one hour of nothing that I could make sense of)". Or the goddamned phone just five inches away from my arm here, which rang with something like "Hello, I am X from the Bla Bla Bla Student Association, we are holding a seminar on gender and electoral politics two weeks from now, in which you are to be one of the speakers," only after several restrained nasty remarks the caller would have apologized for bothering me, and a forced 'sorry' is the most nauseating pill ever, since no one even understands why he or she must say so. I DON'T wish to get away from here and all these maddening interruptions. What I wish for is that THEY are rounded up and shipped to Mars. This is MY home for devil's sake. MY library. MY workplace. Mom suggested that I put on iron bars to replace the door and window - I am really giving this suggestion a serious consideration. If all these criminals are roaming around free, I'd better get behind bars to stop them from annoying me.
Noon
Dreaming I was walking in the Mall looking for and at nothing in particular and cursing the management for the nonchalant air-conditioner when a CD counter played one of the old Earth, Wind & Fire 'The Best Of' albums, wholesomely. I stood there listening to it until the last coda - more than one hour. I couldn't help it. I was transfixed. The unbearable heat I took shelter from ceased to intrude, other noises subsided, all people didn't exist. Just the music. Even I wasn't where I thought I was. "I will NEVER go shopping with you EVER again," said M when the last song ended.
Writers'
Writings SEE
ALSO: I have never intended to mislead. I mean, when I write something then I am that thing, for the time being; I would forget about it entirely when the typing-session has ended. Curiously people keep saying that according to my pieces I must have been easy-going, constantly laughing, devil-may-care happy mammal. My works don't give away what I am, then. Odd. I believe anything 'artistic' carries the mood of the time. T's paintings, for instance, they show the depressed T, the stupidly content T, the excessively happy T, and so on. This applies to writing, too. I have no idea how I came to be in this case of anomaly. Of course A.A. Milne wasn't any Winnie the Pooh character, nor its overall atmosphere of pampering the Homo ludens; the writer was a brutal misanthrope. Countless cases can be cited. But some big part of the usual examples people have been giving to illustrate the gap between writers and their works are not correct - Woody Allen, for one, is a neurotic ape and his works are neurotic works. Dorothy Parker was suicidal and disillusioned, her works were. Saki was sad and vengeful, his works were. Even travel writers show themselves when they write the touristic stuff. Paul Theroux is the obvious example; egomania and narcissism are both in the man and the books of travels. I am bothered by this. X just emailed me, telling me how happy I am!
You
Better Shut Up When You're Dead I've found the epitaph I'd love to see upon my grave. This epitaph could not stand being thought of, it would evaporate quickly. Like all thoughts, to keep it means to embalm it right away, i.e. when it is still very much alive. Where did I find the epitaph for me? Well -- on somebody's grave, of course. He was Italian (he is; he's a dead Italian) and a busybody (no way, is he Javanese?), his name was (is) Aratino, a poet from Tuscany, and the epitaph is this:
If borrowing some deceased Italian's epitaph is too horrifying, do not be alarmed, I am anticipating that. I plan a certain change of course. Namely, erasing what is not me and adding what is. Thus there would necessarily be a substantial change, since I do not wish to be buried using an Italian name of a man that I've never talked football with. (I have no plan to replace the word "Tuscan" with anything else, because it is always a jump of sales in Indonesia if you display an obviously "western" trademark). Why talking of death in the middle of the day when all else seems so alive? My alibi is one of the smartest phrases this species has ever invented, namely: "Why not?" Even Bon Jovi has been, as I found out a dozen years too late, singin' of nothin' but death and salvation, even in his sickly love songs. Blaze of Glory could be a perfect epitaph, though I have some doubts. The probability of me being dead in an outfit of an outlaw of a New Mexican Real McCoy by being shot from the back by a sheriff named Garrett is considerably smaller than just dead, period, even though I love Billy The Kid -- the movie. That was the only song by the band that I ever listened to, there was no way not to listen since the theater played it loud in dolby stereo and I couldn't find the way to the rest room in the dark. The only blemish in the song is Jon always nags his Lord, but as I'd be too dead to argue against feudalism by then, I don't think this would be a problem. It's always my theme, death, and I don't need a 'because' for that, since death has been as unobtrusive as the campaigning parties' street-rallies these days. Everything seems so alive, everyday on this planet; that's why I can't escape being constantly reminded of death. Everything I write is an epitaph.
Among
the Wolves SEE
ALSO: History
of Indonesian Literature It was a discussion on democracy. That's what the invitation said. There were more Ph.D's than necessary, and they clearly had a funny idea about what should pass on as coffee. Even as the fee was a bit wow considering the closed-circuit this thing was, my disgust is invaluable. If only I hadn't already promised the publisher to attend this thing, I would rather get pissed-off elsewhere non-air-conditioned. These people, these highly educated people, the intelectuals guarding the masses, the hopes of the future, are still the way they used to be under the New Order [the authoritarian regime that ruled Indonesia from around 1967 until about 1998]. Bureaucratic to their bones, autocratic in interaction, selflessly devoted to hypocrites' excellence. Just two illustrations of the so laden day, one personal and one social: A speaker, a rather famous woman activist, only met me there for the first time although we both know each other by names and works since the college days. Her first sentence upon being introduced by Dr. HJ was: "I thought you are a feminist. Why is your hair this long?" It was half-meant as a joke (activists were not created to deliver nor appreciate humor). It was more than five hours, the whole event, by the end of which I knew she really half-meant the line as a serious rebuke. Then, Dr. ML delivered a synopsis of her research of the urban poor. The usual super-boring sort of thing, overloaded by numbers and percentages and such. Recommendation: urban poor is wretched. Someone must do something about it. On coffee-break, Dr. ML still talked of the lives of her subjects; telling us how sad she was to witness their daily toil, etcetera. "To others, their misery doesn't exist at all," she shook her head as if excessively concerned. She didn't even glance at pan-handlers at the door of the building; nor the various versions of temporary dwellings right across the street, where that time women washed the clothes and cooked and mended stuff in. When reaching the door she brushed aside a bum, still intensively talking about the urban poor here and how it is in (never here but another planet that is called) Amsterdam.
For
Once, Go Too Far Maybe we have passed each other in the dark before. Maybe we have not. Maybe on the mossy bridge I have seen you looking down or you have glanced at me watching the still water below. Maybe not. Maybe the cool night air have carried your voice to me uphill or the zephyr of dawn sung my delirious rave to your ear. Maybe they did not. But how I love "maybe". I love it though too many times everything could never even turn into maybe. I love it though deep ravines always cut us into shales of the starving half. The rain is here. The rain is here because shapeless trees are shaking their heads to lament their leaves' affair with the cold wind. The rain is here because clouds turn purple and the sky paints itself scarlet and the moon queens over it with heavy sighs. The rain is here because it leaves fragile souls in shambles. The rain is here because we pass each other in the dark and mud holds us tight and no glance is there to you or me. The rain is here because moss feasts on our bridge and the river turns into a brown menace and we pace quickly to reach the other side. The rain is here because your voice is drowned and mine cannot get through. The rain is here and that is my reason to call you. The rain is here and the chasm is now filled in. Go crossing it, me or you. Many people are afraid of too many things. Things that are new, things that are repudiated repressed repositted. We have come a long way. I do and I think so do you. What do we have to fear? The rain is our buddy. One, two, drops of its dew are universes, ours if only we do not hesitate. Go crossing the water, soulmate. Go and do not turn back. Go and land to me. The ravine is going to be again, but by then it is nowhere in between. Tonight the rain is here. The rain is here as an ironclad guarantee. That nothing outside us can be. The sandman might still enter, but do not heed the chill inside. Stay with me when tornadoes' concertos are reaching crescendo. Stay with me when the world shudders and hearts tremble. Stay and talk to me. Talk to me about disillusionment and disinclination and dismantlement of your life. Talk to me about hopes and dreams and how you wish upon a star. Do not hold back. I am here because the rain is here and you are within. It is a cinch once you surrender to the rain and let it be your cushion your bed your blanket your home. Talk to me, soulmate, do not clam up. Talk to me about esplanades and grassflowers and how blurry is the nighlight. Tell me about your ghosts that visit the corner of your mind in the dead of the night. Tell me how the chains of your past clang and the candle on the window struggles to give light. Tell me about the hypnosis the seas do to you. Tell me about the ethereal presence of your love. Tell me everything, I want to listen and I will. Talk to me about the escapades. Tell me about the caves. Tell me about images. Tell me how do you feel when the clock is ticking and you lay down eyes wide open the neonlight hurt them you do not blink for fear that the phantom will sneak in. Tell me about the miserable anonymous plant on your office desk and yesterday's coffee gets cold and murky while you are weary. Tell me about the feeling you get in the midst of the silent strange crowd on your streets after work. Tell me about the pain you bear on the escarpment of after-hours. Tell me about the unnamed mental thing that gnaws at your belly as you try to swallow down burning anger and it sets fire on your insides. Tell me everything and nothing else. The moon is hiding behind the curtain of raindrops. Do not fear, soulmate. I am you and you are me and within here and now are everywhere and everytime, the rain is here and it is your call to be brave and face me.
Napalm
Death SEE ALSO: Music & Musicians M was attacked suddenly by the urgency to reform his place to resemble a human lair, and found a very old album of a band he was devoted to: Napalm Death (1990). When he forced everybody to listen to the tape an overall disgust was unmistakable. The band's idea about music is surely alien to the mentally healthy. But it is not its secret to oblivion - one glance at what do come to the #1 chart now is sufficient to conclude that this disease is not confined to the deceased. But M wouldn't surrender to screaming guests. He said this band is not just good but wise - a notion so bewildering that K went to the bathroom right away. I will never agree to any of M's personal ideas. It is enough to know that this is the man who was responsible for the short journey electrical stuff in my house have endured to their premature dysfunction. But I admit this Napalm Death died with revolutionary slogans on its mouth, and that's what is 'wise' according to M. Take a look:
These poor guys spent too much time minding rhymes and trying to sound smart, that they neglected completely the musical side of the enterprise. In the whole album there isn't a single crumb of noise that can be honestly called melody. It seems to me that the guitarists play with hammers. Maybe they were the culprits behind Bill Clinton's campaign slogans.
Skyborne
Psychopathology There are two kinds of people: those who classify people and those who do not. I think I belong to the first group like whales belong to mammals - I do classify people, but I don't adhere to certain theories or known systems, and rely entirely on stored files from past experiences and, upon something new, hunches. Well, actually we all are classifiers - or else we wouldn't even function in barbeque parties. But I'm not in the period of talking sensical. The following account is why. I just talked to MZ online. She's a fellow-categorizer. But she isn't compassless; she uses stuff like zodiacs and color of eyes and voices and God knows what else to form her verdict. I have previously succeeded in shutting D up on the subject of (his words) 'personality-reading'. It's insane. There are optimistic phone services catering to this sort of wackos, "Call 12345678. We help you to know your personality" - 80 cents a minute. Each time I saw the ads on TV I could still shake my head. Anyway, MZ is undeniable (in access). I've never achieved any luck nor success with women. So she still managed to drag me into it. "Who is your favorite singer?" she asked me first of all, and this was the bait I couldn't resist, even though she re-asked when I replied "James Hetfield". She wanted female singers. I raked my brain and forced out (yeah, yeah, I know) Madonna (for resilience!). "Hair?" She meant Madonna's - whose hair color and style and length and sort is an encyclopedia in itself. Hoooboy. My answer was, pre-Marilynization. I couldn't tell what color that was, nor whether it was wavy or curly or just unwashed. But my soothsayer amazingly could. "Rock," she then concluded. Madonna? Rock? But you can't expect anything else from someone whose musical knowledge is derived from astrology. She moved on. She asked me in particular which song. I said Lucky Star. She said she began to see a pattern. She already got my official data elsewhere (darn her brother!). She contemplated for a few seconds. Then she sent me an email while we were still talking. It contained (or so she said) the 'reading' of my personality. Based on Madonna???!!?? But I read it nonetheless - people geared towards the supernatural are armed with the only thing that keeps the craft alive: mammalian egocentrism. If all of a sudden some stranger tells you about yourself according to the stars, I bet you would, if not relent, nicely avoid her - you can't afford rude dismissal, because you are flattered. The generality of every 'reading' and prediction is hued by it, enabling such a halo of special tailoring for none but you, while sixty million of people get exactly the same words. It is your own doing. The stranger only relies on your ego. The 'reading', by the way, was heavily impersonal: it gave away 8 types of personalities based, I dimly recognized, on the conservative psychology for dummies. The only personal thing there was the first three words and one number, MZ's note attached to it: "You are number 5." Number 5 is "The Cholerici" (?) It sounds so much like a typo of Cholera. Here is what it said:
Am I like that? Some of the items are what I think I have been. Some others are never. The specimen of famous persons didn't tell me anything; they were all too long dead. But MZ would have said I just wasn't aware of the traits, or I refused to admit them, or whatever usual justification of the description's truthfulness. MZ's bible of classification doesn't comprise of my short temper, tendency to get quarrelsome, cynicism, homicidal intentions - 'neurosis' is something like mashed potato next to the psychopathology that I think I am most vulnerable against. She didn't tell me, either, that and why I like opal and jade; I don't like junk food; I choose colors such as terracotta and ochre and gray for clothes; I pick the scent musk; I don't like flowers and prefer green leaves; I don't like chocolates and ice cream; I don't drink any alcoholic beverage; I've never used drugs and never will; I'm dangerously vulnerable when it comes to blond, long-haired, blue-eyed caucasian males; I only like cats among the available usual pets; I like knitwear; I love small towns and hate big cities; I can write several gigabytes of why Missouri is great while I can't find anything good to say about New York, even less so about Los Angeles; I love barns, log cabins and quiet shorelines; I love mountains and hills without being an overzealous hiker; I love autumn; I love the tropical rain season; I got migraines in excessively hot days; I'm sorta claustrophobic when it comes to public transport; if I were Bill Gates I would have been driving a tough SUV, most likely a Jeep; I don't watch Seinfeld and Ally McBeal and Sex & The City and The X-Files and Friends; my sort of watchable sitcom is Murphy Brown; my kind of likeable TV tomes is the series Northern Exposure; I cling to the familiar and don't experiment when it comes to food; I still use Windows no matter that I curse it a zillion times each day because Linux is too complicated for a semi-dummy like me; and I don't believe in 'personality reading' and astrology and whatever else is in that neighborhood. And I just don't see how Madonna got anything to do with it. She wasn't even named as an example there in MZ's email.
Footnote: "Mirabeau, Sir Walter Scott and Danton": The three, especially Mirabeau, rocked, but they were not singers and never related to music. Mirabeau and Danton were brilliant French Revolution's wordsmiths and demagogues. Both were known to be shameless opportunists. Danton led the 1792 French upheaval and created the dawn of the Reign of Terror during which virtually everyone was guillotined - including, later, himself. Scott was a Scottish literary lion chiefly remembered for Ivanhoe (1820). He was declared bankrupt in 1826 because of his obsession with reconstruction of Abbotsford, his estate. For the rest of his life he kept on writing novels at a pen-breaking speed just to repay his debts. Even on his deathbed he was said to be dictating his last novel to a secretary, determined to the last breath to pay off the bills the Abbotsford had strangled him with - the farmhouse eventually killed him. Mirabeau was remembered as being capable to weave emphatic defense and attack alike of whatever, for instance how he dragged Marie Antoinette down into the abyss and for a while lifted her up to heavens after the silly queen paid him.
Although
He Can't Spell 'Odyssey' SEE ALSO: 'My' men -- a mess of photographs & rap at my cousin's site. I dreamt of him this morning (I went to bed at 5). It was about a scene ages ago: we talked of how to spell the word 'odyssey'. The word had a hegemony over his personal web site, but incorrectly written according to the normal dictionary - and he defended his right to determine what is written as what - something I uphold very much, but this concession necessitates a sound reason or I wouldn't grant it at all. Now I'm having my coffee and thinking about the word. 'Oddissey', he said; 'oddhesay', and half a dozen of alternatives, each says something different from the others. God, I hate him whenever he's cute. Yet -- Words we actually use can't be mantras. Magical words use us. To show the words who's the master of the site, you could do what he did; tell the words to mean what you mean. It can't be wrong if you know what you're talking about, and he's very right about that. I miss him so much.
The
Woman @ the Back Porch Swing How shallow Mrs. X is. So shallow. I don't blame her for what she can't help to be - all her life she's been living in this or that small town so deep inland, at most a suburban spot. Socialization isn't her fault, education is only partly so - small town girls whose first act upon turning 16 is to get someone to marry cannot be entirely blamed for the world's overpopulation problem - because it is so human, this sort of stupidity. At 18 they would have gotten at least one kid, then a year later they get divorced and both they and their offspring come back to their parents' house to spend the rest of the loooooong years in perpetual emotional, mental, and even financial dependency. "That's how it is, hon," wrote S upon my story. "This is the American way....." It is impossible for me to hate Mrs. X, for what she is by her own deed and what she is by cultural construction. But today I got another email from her and I really feel I should have hated her for what she is. Still, I can't. My rule is, I can get disgusted, or I can get mad. Both seem overlapping but they, in my mind, are separated. There is a difference between getting angered by something bad (or evil or criminal) and getting mad because of something repulsive. Mrs. X can never repulse me. She is not stupid the way I take the word to mean. She's willing to learn, although whatever new can't find a way to stick into her mind already clogged by old home-baked ideas and concepts. She also can't truly upset me, because basically she is the friendliest person I've ever known. She is ordinarily good; very good. She is not an ideal mother nor wife, but in both predicaments she is averagely successful. She talks too much, and meddles in her kids' and husband's businesses too often, but some people like this kind of attitude and dub it motherly. Of all her three grown-up kids, only the second who told me she's not really wanting her mother to get near her most of the time. The father is an invalid; he, although a bit grumpy because of that, can't say he's not taken care of. The grandchildren are healthy and perhaps happy, having the grandma fussing over their schooling and leisure alike. But her emails are always like this. Very warm, very sweet, very full of her beliefs and standards that I don't share a bit. Maybe I am just on the lowest ground of melancholy. But the fact is I am disappointed, big time, that Mrs. X could never understand me. Well, as a matter of fact my own Mom could never do, either, and the two women are friends and almost of the same age; yet - maybe Mom's formal ed matters. One thing a university surely teaches people about, is this: if you are not so bright, if you don't have any original idea of your own, if you don't subscribe to certain theories or beliefs or superstitions so steadfastly, shut up. So she's never smart, but upon something she can't grasp she'd shut up. On something new or radically different from what she knows, she shuts up. Mrs. X, on the other hand, keeps on talking. Using the homilies that her culture has been amassing and trumpeting for the last hundreds of years since the Puritans landed in Philadelphia. Mrs. X's sort of 'best reading' has been inspiring me for countless essays - bashing it as it deserves to be. But how touching actually her view of those silly tomes. She believes the books like Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus and How To Help Your Children To Achieve Emotional Intelligence. Mom, ten thousand miles away from her friend, has her own postmodern bibles - she devours every political bullshit uncritically and takes whatever is inside as something equals to what Moses took down the Sinai with. Yeah, well, Mom is admittedly smarter than Mrs. X, although only by the grace of formal education. Mrs. X, in turn, is way better than Mom in being human - or mother or wife or friend; definitely lightyears better as a cook. I was reading Mrs. X's email when my sister suddenly asked me, "Gee, are we gonna be like Mom when we're old?" "Not me," I said, alarmed. "I'll do everything that it will never be me, either," she said. She so seldom thinks, that when she does the whole house would notice. Cats stay at a respectful distance, for example, waiting until she finishes. "I'll never be Mrs. X either," my sister continued. "She is so stupid." I don't agree. But while she was (still is) thinking there in the living room, I sit here to review Mrs. X and Mom and us like this. Funny. I care about whether Mrs. X understands me or not. This woman - who gets on my nerves with her display of understanding nothing but her own back porch swing. This mother whose all-out devotion to her son is something maddening and surely wrong according to the principles of child-rearing - she is responsible for making him the current irresponsible man. The thing that always tastes bad in my mind about Mrs. X is the shallowness, the little narrow path long and winding into the past - the Mississippi in her that vehemently denies everything outside its ordinary course. Mrs. X has absolutely no idea what anger is. She has no tool to know what despair is. She has never known what sorrow is. She cannot digest what spirit is. She will never grasp what evil means. She only knows these in the place of those: 'getting upset', 'feeling bad', 'troubled', enthusiasm, and 'mean'. I wish I could tell her that she knows nothing whatever of what life is. Anger is about a deep-rooted bullshit unshaken by years while it should be exterminated to make life more sensible. Getting upset is when someone says your hair looks damp. Despair is working likea robot in the rice field under the scorching sun for a few cents a month. Feeling bad is when you think of how you told your neighbor that a drunken driver had made a mess out of her summer garden while in truth it was your dog. Sorrow is wetting pillows night after night alone in silence, knowing fully well that tomorrow will come to the exact same thing again after sunset. Troubled is when your little grandchild got a flu. Spirit builds nations and yields masterpieces of art. Enthusiasm sparks the family picnic. Evil is a calculating mind, devising genius workable plans to eradicate a certain race or something similar in an interpersonal zone. Mean is seeing someone carefully building a tower of bridge cards and to him we deliberately say "It's gonna crumble down if I sneeze, right?" So whenever I told her about despair, she sweetly replies taking it as 'feeling bad'. And so on. Mrs. X never knows what beautiful is - she only knows 'cute'. She doesn't understand desire - her limit is 'to want'. She cannot grasp falling in love - her thing is 'having a crush'. How exasperating. I can't even sufficiently pour what's on my mind about this out. She will never know any of what I need her to know. She is not going to find out how it's like to start painting or writing something. She is destined to have the joy of reading a really good book unknown - a book that you deliberately read as slowly as possible to save the pages still unopened; that upon finishing the last sentence you say to God, "Thank you for letting this writer to stay alive." To Mrs. X, there is no difference between having your painting dried after the last strokes, and cleaning up the table after a family dinner. She always failed to notice the yawning distance between writing an essay and on a postcard. My sister knows this; that's why she said Mrs. X is 'stupid'. She always says so about any member of the flock of the 'ordinary people'. And even my Mom is accustomed to think of herself as a few steps above her friend's level of existence. But I love Mrs. X. She is not especially equipped to make me mad or disgusted. She is like her husband, her kids, her grandchildren, her in-laws, her ancestors, her fellow citizens, her fellow members of human beings in general - Mrs. X is Everyperson. I will let her and my love be, only I'll keep on trying to stop wanting her to understand me. If only I could pray, I would - to God to make Mrs. X an anomaly; that one day all of a sudden she will know what happiness is - that it is a whole lot different from what she all these years has been taking as it, namely 'having fun' or 'feeling good'.
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