Diana Kurniawan

I am a danger to someone, the very same people who doesn't want me to write. The very act of writing and dreaming of writing suffocates them. It clouds their days with overcast of dislike, and the very act of dreaming about being a writer and writing creates a mood swing inside their souls and hurts their spirits. 

 

I am dangerously dreaming and writing. It might be for a very long time. But, the dream is alive.

 

I also dream that the emotions that those who want failure and shame to scandal my writing and my life will be replaced with joy. For them to also dream of happier times and happier things, wishing me good will and good tidings. I dream that those who wish rejection upon my soul have compassion beyond my doubt and they are filled with great expectations and hope. 

 

I dream dangerously and write even more so. I will write about my good dreams and good times, also imperfect times all aligned with the will of God. These dangerous writings and dangerous dreams brings forth good news so those with the desire to live dangerously like me can achieve their dreams.

 

Living dangerously has its perks. I sip jasmine tea and sometimes iced-tea all at the same time, writing away all of the rebelious ways of life popped with similes and metaphors about candies of time. Not everything is sweet, but all of it, dangerous. 

 

Those who dislike my dangerous ways probably have opinions, but like most rebels with dangerous thoughts, we ignore them. We light a candle and meditate on the dreams and writings we have inside our souls, dangerously coming out and seeping onto the pages. Auspicious mirth and symbolic of love, these dangerous writings and dreams might move a heart. 

 

You may believe I am a danger, but in all honesty, I won't have it any other way.

 

Just Write...dangerously.

Could I write what I am writing at 21 years old? Perhaps, but truthfully, it would not be as well seasoned or as deep. It wouldn't have the nuances and the grit that it has, because I was in deep trenches after 21 years old. Does age and writing correlate? I certainly believe so.

 

Toni Morrison adviced writers to turn 40 before attempting to write a debut novel. It has its advantages to write after a life long experienced. The hardest thing to do was finding the mindset, time and space for writing. I couldn't write yesterday because I my body hurt from yard work and hard work. I had to rest, because today I will find more time to write.

 

After finding the mindset, I had to find the age range of my audience, what age I wanted to write for. As we all grow, the child within often yearns to come out and play, and that dictates the genre and age range of your audience. For me, I am perpetually in 7th grade. It never swayed from 11-13 years old. The experiences I had at that age and younger was so prominent inside my mind that it stuck to me and held me dear. It gave me pleasure as I thought of those times and it gave me energy to keep writing. 

 

Yesterday was gone, and I knew as we age, we were to forget the past, but I couldn't help but to hold on to my childhood years as much as I possibly could because it gave me joy. Not everything was perfect, but there were kindred spirits who kept me at joy and I remained in contact with them. My friends kept me alive back then, and they kept me alive still now.

 

As I write the work I was to write and called to write, I will remain in me, the child within, even as I age to 144.

 

Just write. 

It has always been an invitation, the blank page misconstrued to be a device to intimidate writers. But, it's never a harmful object, instead a welcoming sign to unload burdens, to divulge secrets, to tell stories, to share thoughts and to empathize emotions. 

 

It's a way to live out your dreams, and to make adventures come alive. The life that I wish I had or that I wish I can lead, the fantasy, the struggles, and the joys, can all come out and play; and for once, it is the way that it should be. No one can tell you otherwise or prevent your thoughts from creating its worlds. You are allowed to write. You are allowed to create and believe. The blank page is yours, forever, and it says, "Come as you are, and share your stories."

 

The best way I know how is to sit with a pen or type my heart out, while sipping my jasmine tea with crackers and strawberry jam. Perhaps small slices of cheese or tiny mozzarella pearls with cherry tomatoes, either way, its all pleasureable and never intimidating. It may be a hobby, but it is a loving past time.

 

The way of life is to enjoy the small moments and don't become a curmudgeon that you won't share your joys or even your angers and indifference. You are allowed to write anything and everything as you please, just do it with that blank piece of paper or a new word file. 

 

I love the stories I create because it fuels my heart's desires, the ones that are often not allowed in real life or was truncated somehow. I get to share them and write them out to finish them to its final destination, and finish with the dream conclusion that makes me feel beautiful inside. 

 

The life I lead is not always so pretty, and as a matter of fact, imperfect. Yet, on these pages, I create other imperfect lives that I identify with but it has a different ending, to give justice on my behalf or those who I meet. It might be raw, but it's not to jeapordize anyone's lives, rather a way to give an experience, an entertainment, and a story that moves you. 

 

I never claim to be a writer genius or aim to be one, but the invitation from the blank pieces of paper fuels my confidence. Mao Tse Tung once said that the blank page is a paper tiger that moves as an elixir to create a revolution. To me, the blank page is a sign of love, a creation waiting to be, a birth, a new life, a new beginning, a start, and a wonderful way to give my heart to others. Sappy as it may sound, it is better than the intimidation people talk about. The blank page is a friend, and it always will be.

 

Just write.

Fear comes to me as I write my work that percolates from daily thoughts. The fears of being persecuted for the words on my blog and the words of my novel of what I experienced from traumas. I push through the barriers with knowledge that although I am weak, the Lord's purpose shall prevail. 

 

It can come through the struggles, but the fears are gone once I can see small moments of suprising joy. Joy reminds, as it is from a source of unrelenting wisdom and strength. I am once again moving forward through the fear and doubts, of never amounting to anything, writing in the dark with tears in my eyes from broken dreams.

 

It might be that I am writing out of loneliness, and the fear is a subplot to the story of my life. But, what is to come is not loneliness in my life nor the fear as they are just another thought that can be gone with a modicum of spiritual nourishment. A verse, a small sentence, a film, a radio station, a conversation and a hug from a friend. Fears be gone and fears no more. Joy conquers the debilitating fears.

 

The sentence of my life doesn't depend on my fears, or the sentiments of others who disliked me from the past of where the fears once comes from. It has to come from the soul, the will to fight another day and the willingness to be open to new adventures with an unflinching faith as the skies above. That's what can conquer my fears, the powerful possibilities.

 

What is to come shall not be writings of fears, or discouragement, or doubts and deaths. That's all the enemy's language and we don't speak the same. I speak reality, truth, love, hope, faith, joy, discernment, camaraderie and courage. Those are my love languages, and my expression of writing. Fear and writing don't exist in the same matrix, as it is writing towards death. Writing is alive and well, and it is a process of life. Not hopelessness, never.

 

Just write. No Fear.

What does the world expect in 15 minutes? It's 15 minutes of unexpected suprise to me, of dancing words choreographed into story. It's not a moment of boredom, instead for 15 minutes, I shine in my own light and in the eyes of God. Fifteen minutes of bliss from the working day and stresses that proves to create a sadness often times taking too much of my own time. Fifteen minutes of love, of self-care, and of solace that I can spend to forgive the unforgiving.

 

What 15 minutes for them is not my business, but what's mine is mine. I claim it and 15 minutes of stage in the world of playwrights, geniuses and random people. Fifteen minutes of fame on the pages of my own life, not the world, but my world. Fifteen minutes of song from the spirit that is lifted up with each typed letters turned into kindness to my being. 

 

Fifteen should spend time on thirty, but if 15 is all I get, then 15 of pleasure I shall have. I don't doubt others can do better, but I know others can do none in 15 minutes that they should perhaps do some 15 minutes of love for themselves. Fifteen is plenty for a busy mind if things to say even with nothing to prove. Fifteen minutes of mess and incoherence turns into brilliance if 15 minutes is well spent each day and with nothing to gain but discipline. Fifteen minutes is so much worth it, because if half an hour turns from 15 minutes, then BAM, it was fifteen more of bliss I gain.

 

Fifteen more I want every night, but my tired eyes and body from labor causes sleep that I desperately need. Fifteen more each day and I can make it last a lifetime, as some 15 minutes of life can create joy never ending. Fifteen minutes on a page for me means 15 minutes of thought that I put down to please myself and no one else so my story lives with 15 minutes of glory. Fifteen minutes seems so short because I need time to revise and edit, but I am only given 15 minutes to free write non-stop with no pause. Timing is everything, and fifteen minutes of life to produce a mind that works within seconds means the synapses are working.

 

Fifteen minutes is the time for renewal each night, where my thoughts jots down through my fingers without prejudices for my own sins. I dwell sometimes that I tire easily and I wound my mind non-stop that it overwhelms me, but for 15 minutes I can stop and tell myself it is okay to just write nothing yet everything for 15 minutes. I am timing myself but 15 minutes feels like pressure with time so I stop looking at the watch, and it is now, three minutes over.

 

Fifteen minutes was up!

Lindy saw him from across the lunch table, and thought he looked like a Monkey Face.

 

"Do you eat bananas all day? You look like a baby monkey," said Lindy.

 

"You look like you have lice in your hair," said Max.

 

Lindy nearly cried and showed him a little pouch filled with hearts made of felted material.

 

"Someone made this for me, I bet you don't have a lot of love in your life," sneered Lindy.

 

"I don't," said Max. He looked at her pouch and replied, "I also don't need sissy little pouches to tell me I'm loved."

 

"I have a Mom at home, and she makes me these things. Do you have love at all?" Lindy asked.

 

"I don't care, stop talking to me," said Max. His eyes teared a little and as he kept eating his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "It's lunch, and you're not my parent."

 

"If you were a boy with everything, what would you still want?" Lindy asked.

 

"I said, stop talking to me," said Max, angrily.

 

Lindy took her pouch and opened it. She took one heart and offered it to Max. "Maybe you're not a Monkey Face after all," said Lindy, showing her palm with the heart.

 

"You know, I've been called worse things at home," said Max.

 

"Nothing is worse than Monkey Face," said Lindy.

 

Max smiled, and took the soft felt cotton heart from Lindy. He placed it inside his pocket and the little heart never grew out of its love.

 

The world turned upside down for Max, and Lindy was not always around. Still, he held on to the little cotton heart during the trying times.

 

Max only talked to Lindy in bits and pieces, during lunch, and maybe after school. Most of the time, he was alone, and didn't want to be bothered.

 

Lindy never called him Monkey Face again, but she frequently asked if he still had the heart.

 

"Yes," Max nodded.

 

"One day, we will be best friends," said Lindy, because deep down inside, she knew there was something about Max that she couldn't understand.

 

"I'm leaving," said Max, near the end of the year.

 

"Keep the heart, and remember that nothing is worse than being called Monkey Face," said Lindy.

 

Max didn't say a word.

 

"I Love you," said Lindy. Max nodded and walked away.

 

Max moved to another school, but at least, for a point in time, there was love that surrounded Max.

 

The End.

 

People often don't realize the power of the small gesture of kindness that can grow inside someone's life. Children are often not born with too many options, because they are given what they are given and they must learn from it, in hope that it is an education.

 

As adults we often don't teach our children how to say I love you to someone who needs it most. We are so guarded and full of judgment and sometimes it is right to do so – however, naturally, children just love. Maybe as adults we can love someone who is without love, although they seem different and silent.

For all of my fellow friends who have been hurt as adults or children. My thoughts are with you.

 

I love you,

Diana Kurniawan

(Inspired by experiences working with low income youths in Los Angeles and Riverside, Southern California).

Half the day was gone, an hour past noon, and I was about to dive into the dirt. With a garden fork and a hand shovel, I slipped on my sandals and squated down to soil level. Cratering the root of a weed, forking around it, then shoveling through the dirt. I grabbed the lowest stalk of the thorned weed, and twisted it around, pulling it from the ground. 

 

A voice came to me, "With every drop of sweat, is a drop of rain for your future garden."

 

Every one of them was grounded into the soil, root so deep, that it felt as if it was planted through the Earth's core. I pulled a weed with all of my might, and yanked it from the dirt. My balance shot, almost falling on my back but the ground caught me. The fear of falling felt as if a cliff was behind, but I felt stable on the ground. The dirt was not my enemy.

 

"Weed assassin," I thought to myself. What poor lives lies in front of me, deemed as unnecessary, yet it taught me more than just gardening. The work was nothing to be afraid of as with every drop of sweat, an elixir of youth concocted itself inside my body. Decreasing in age, yet becoming a sage as the weeds told me to root myself deep, unabashed of shame with my writing. To not care if the weed bloomed with flowers but to cast out for all its worth, to prepare for a new beginning, a process of growth as revisions and writing shall be in the future.

 

What would become if nothing was done to the field of weeds? A forest of flowers with petals as bright as the sun, with dead stalks in the winter. What would become of my backyard if there was no weed assassin? An overgrown sloth of insect haven. I needed to kill them. Today was their funeral.

 

Just kill some weeds. Just write.  

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

 

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

 

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

There is a being, outside of me and inside of me. Their constant battles colludes my day and thoughts, and often angers me.

 

The being outside of me is a slim blonde of pixie haircut. Her blue eyes and sharp features has a beak nose and fierce stare. She judges and pokes at the sorrows I feel, mind you, I am not always sorrowful. She is voiceless because I refuse to listen. She tauts a rubber band on her wrist and snaps it to scare me while her budding jealousies of me keeps watch of my relationships and friendships. She loves anger and confusion and seldom does she comment but often would she mock.

 

Her contests of life and successes judges me and compares me to those who are above the standard of normal. The millionaires, the priviledged, the born rich, the models, the happily married, and the happy mothers. She contorts the normalcy of my day and skews the present into a place of morose opportunities. Her appetite for anguish is a glutton, and I am sick of her.

 

The being inside of me is losing his hair, and has dark freckles on his face. An endearing smile, often with a nod to me, to show gratitude and comprehension. His golden voice slurs now, but he loves me and repeats what I say. "I love you," he says, and inside my being is a flying dove, over the skies, over the clouds, and up towards heaven. This being knows me, since the day I was born, and will love me till the day I die. He thwarts the outside forces into a presence of peace and calm, as a still river in mid-summer with trout swimming over rocks. 

 

I spend time with the being inside me. Singing to him, with my own golden voice, Amazing Grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. The being inside me loves to hear my voice, and knows that through music, we are saved in mercy.

 

If only the blonde pixie never existed, and memories of her gone as her criticism disappears. 

 

I love the being inside me more than anything, and spending time with my soul is healing.

 

Just write.

A morning crisp of gentle breeze over me, as I tread on a dirt path.

"44! Callin'on 144!" I hear the mountain call.

 
"I holler!" I look above, out of hope.

 
"Holler?" It asks me, with its peak melting off snow, now blazing sunshine reflecting off.

 
"Yeah! I gotta keep going! I can't NOT live," I answer out of desperation.

It sighs, breathing wind, pushing clouds, over rainbows. "You not afraid of La Corona?"

 
"I'm not alone," I cry with tears spewing out of eye sockets, snot out of nostrils, and exasperated from overwhelming fears.

 
The mountain closes its eyes, the creases off of its jags. Edges sharp yet trim from trillions of volumes of rainfall. "I thought you gave up. Plenty died."

 
"What about me, I'm 54," I ask.

 

"When the dust over your eyes reds your vision, keep the path. Let the sweat of your shoulders drip to your chest as it settles over your brassiere. The wetness turns into comfort in the heat. Let the air cool it down," the mountain tells me.

 
It heaves and calls on me with a grounded bellow, "Callin' on 144."

"I'm game. You stay!" I say, because I know the mountain will stay strong.

 
I see it empathizes a cry from La Corona. It's not to blame, because no one knows how it came about. The mountain endearingly kisses the sky as it clears with the sun scorching the ground.

 
"What about me? I'm 24," says a voice from over the leeway, high-pitch and nasally. 

 
"Calling on 144, for you, too," the mountain whispers. It smiles as the trees sways from joy. "You are welcome, here. So is 14, and 4."

 

"Thank you," I tell the mountain.

 
A tiny bud of bluebell reaches my toe, and caresses my right foot. I kneel to crouch to it and kiss it softly. The mountain leans as it creates a shadow on the dirt path I am treading on. "Misery loves company," the mountain warns.

"I will answer back even after 144," I say to the mountain.

 
The mountain tilts its peak to one side and nods, "You make sure you do."

 
The clouds never said their goodbyes, but the rainbow ? makes a grand entrance curving the atmosphere. "He's always here when there is joy," the mountain says.

 
"I never felt a drop of rain. Is this the afterlife?"  I ask the mountain.

 
"Don't matter, you're here with me, before, after, during 144!" The mountain pushes its gust from underneath me, forcing me uphill.

"I holler!" I scream and fly over the peak, landing perch on the other side of mountain.

 
Just write.