Diana Kurniawan

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.

The George Floyd incident made a mark in my life. As I watched the video of his suffocations, I recalled my own. The time when people oppressed me without education of my hard work and struggles in life, and no compassion for my boundaries.

 

George Floyd and so many others lost their boundaries under the oppression of the knee of the racist officer. George Floyd didn't have time or opportunity to dialogue or argue his point of view. This made me thought of the people who were also racists to me, of all colors and backgrounds and socio-economic status. They used the "model minority" excuse to oppress me. "You're Asian, you must be rich. So you don't need this job and you don't need the support and you don't deserve our services, and you don't deserve love," said a lot of racist female enemies, male enemies, a social worker, two supervisors, Medical representatives, and four politician. Somehow, this became a common story, to a lot of women who experienced violence.

 

The same thing happened to people like George Floyd and this time, the skin color created an enemy based on his darkness, as mine based on my Asian features. It was the same racism, yet I had time and no one pushed against the back of my neck, but I was almost homeless. The George Floyd physical abuse was enough violence and that caused so much outrage stemming from centuries of slavery and racism. It was the extra heat to the anger and the oppression couldn't be held anymore thus the looting and the protests. I understood, but with my family emergency, I couldn't be there to participate with the protests. My family needed me, and so it was.

 

Watching the protests and violence over the internet and on the television was difficult. Truthfully, my opinions and experiences wouldn't have compared. But, I thought of the times when those who were racist to me told me that they deserved "opportunities" and "benefits" or "connections," and I wanted to beat the @*&^  out of them.

 

I thought of the all of the friends I knew now, who worked hard for a living, and were good friends of mine, and were made of diverse backgrounds of high income and low incomes. They didn't oppress others no matter what culture or color of skin, because they acted upon the knowledge and belief that everyone has the right to an opportunity, the right to defend ourselves, and the right to the pursuit of happiness. 

 

No matter what George Floyd did with his situation, he should have been given his physical boundaries, his right to an attorney (opportunity), or at least, be read his Miranda Rights. His incident was so blatant and violent, that it was disturbing. Personally, I grew up not liking the police, because in Southern California, there were plenty of gang violence and the police were involved all the time, that I associated police not with protection, but with violence.

 

I realized since I was young that the law was often done to defend the rich, and oppress the poor. That was so difficult to have to watch again this time in the United States, not in my mother country, Indonesia. The George Floyd incident made me cry because it was evidence blatant as an eye-sore, that a lot of white people and now police officers, grew up with certain prejudices that caused murders in the year 2020. George Floyd was just one out of many, and the abuses and racism I felt in 2001 were systematic, and caused me mental anguish. Both were caused by centuries of racism. 

 

I won't be able to solve racism but I do believe in the power of one.

 

Not a lot of people would know, but I subscribed to Entertainment Weekly, and I loved television. I also love Princess Diana and her children. When Prince Harry struggled to find love, I would send him pictures of Meghan Markle, and now, Duchess of Sussex, because I saw her picture on EW, and I wrote letters to Prince Harry, that I think he should give it a try. It might not be important to other people, but I cared for Prince Harry and his family, and I did it. It was a loving gesture from me, to Princess Diana's son. Prince Harry, turns out, had a friend who knew Meghan Markle, and I believed my letters helped at some capacity, although one wouldn't know for sure. I was probably amongst many who sent him letters. But, I was enchanted when I saw them at the tennis court at Wimbledon (or was it the U.S. Open), and she wore his shirt. I actually remembered the day when I wrote to the Prince, that he should pull this move with her. "Ask her to wear your shirt in public, and it will be blessing," I wrote to him. It worked! I HAD NO IDEA! But, I DID IT!

 

I'm not claiming victory over their marriage, but I wrote letters of support to the Duke and Duchess of Sussex during the scrutiny from the world. I was probably some of the daring crazies who wrote letters to Clarence House telling them to tell the public to go to hell. 

 

Now, what does George Floyd and the marriage of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle have in common? One was a sign of old belief, and the latter, beautiful future. We should always look toward a future of love, no matter what race we are. One day, George Floyd will be a signature of how destructive racism have come and how Black Lives Matter should be a mantra for equality. But, one thing was for sure, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex now has a son, and perhaps more, and just maybe, love like theirs will be more prominent than police brutality.

The Coronavirus pandemic has been raging and now still raging. There were protests from the George Floyd and Black Lives Matter incident and it became a movement across the world. I tried to write but with my family emergency, things went hectic rapidly. Had to live, and so I have things to write. Didn't divulge into my thoughts, because I saved them for now.

 

Sometimes as I wrote my thoughts down on paper or on screen, I often became oblivious to reality because my writing was and always will be an escape and entertainment. However, I realized that living has writing all over it. Might not be on paper, but on our memories and our minds, and I had to stop writing for a smidge to live to continue to write.

 

It will continue to be a cycle and it will produce fruitful labors.

 

I LOVE LIVING. I LOVE WRITING.

 

Just Write.

The past four weeks has been a hectic spot in my life, and now it is plateauing to a steady uphill to an improvement. Several family emergencies ensued and I couldn't help but to be fearful of what tomorrow will bring. All I could do was breathe at the time and cried. It was so devastating that I couldn't put things into words. But, I held on to the emotion and expressed it on paper.

 

As I finished one of my dear friend's book, Kidnapped by the Taliban, by Dr. Dilip Joseph, and also Kullervo by J.R.R. Tolkien this past week, I became inspired to blog. I may not be able to flesh out the details and indulge on my emotions on this blog, but now that things have settled, I have nothing but words to write and to express in my reality.

 

The emotions were held under the table at the time and I held it as if I was holding something in secret. I wrote things down slowly and the expression of writing things down now, during, and after the emergencies helped me cope. I calmed down with writing and I found this was as common as breathing... for a lot of people. 

 

I have been grateful for my ability to express emotions into words as a writer, and now as a human being. Writing was my coping and it has been and will always be. There was nothing in the past that could destroy it and nothing in the future will ever deter me.

 

Just write. 

It has been a long week, aside from my family's own bouts of influenza, but also from being inside too much that makes my own conscience tired. The news has been full of tragedies, but being in a community of writers heals me as I keep in touch with other writers. 

 

A friend, Julie Rowan-Zoch, is our local delegate for the Society for Childrens Books Writers and Illustrators, and she sends me lovely messages to encourage our local groups to stay inspired during this self-quarantine times. 

 

"An object in motion, tends to stay in motion," is the saying goes by Newton, the Mathematician, and this stays true to writers as well. Being in seclusion for self-quarantine doesn't mean complete isolation. I plan to immerse myself in inspiration by reading and continuing to write with my fellow writers and listening to their stories on Instagrams or Twitter or if you have a Facebook account as well. 

 

Writing doesn't have to be a lonely sport, because there are communities around the world and in your local groups who loves to connect and communicate about writing. This helps tremendously. But never forget that even during self-quarantine, writing is as easy as picking up a pencil or a pen and just writing on your own. Then sharing it through the world online to create connection.

 

Just write.

We often cannot find the good in some of the things we have in life, such as living in times of the Coronavirus. There have been so many deaths and so many families shattered from the infectious disease. I for one, cannot seem to find anything good about this time. Yet, I am continuing to grow.

 

I am writing down some of the things that I can do once the self-quarantine lockdown is over. I am growing wiser and more grateful of the things I often don't appreciate. While writing, I can feel my heart becoming larger and having more capacity to live. Sometimes I don't know what to say to those who experienced first hand of the virus and its atrocities, but I know I can empathize simply by remembering the times when I lost someone dear or recalling the time when I was so sick that all I can do was cry.

 

I know the suffering is grave, and it is evidentially so. I wish I can change things, but this self-quarantine makes me realize that somethings can't be changed and I have to live with it. It is just the way it is. I have to keep living, because it is the only way justice will uphold from the viral infections. The world has to take its precaution and appreciate life more and more after this global pandemic is over. We as a society have to learn to appreciate each other, even when things are tough.

 

I wonder if the children of tomorrow who are born during this time will have to live through another global pandemic. All I want to do is write about it to tell them what blossoms from my thoughts and heart as a dedication to the children of the future, so they will live through life beautifully and appreciate their lives thoroughly. I can't seem to put too much into words right now, but this blog is one way of reflecting and I am not ashamed of my own thoughts. It is freedom of expression and the freedom to write, even in the times of the coronavirus.

 

Just write.

 

 

As I practice self-quarantine at home, I picked up P.L. Tavers's Mary Poppins. It revitalized me.

 

Her writing has a lesson and learning tool attached to it, from the dialogues, attitudes and the voice. The story was meant to be entertaining and this urban fantasy classic was so dear to my heart. 

 

Her writing gave me a way to reflect on my own craft, of how I attached attitude and voice to create a memorable character for my stories. Both as an entertainment and as a tool for children to relate back into their lives, Mary Poppins gave us a disciplinarian in a book, and fun in a story. Mary Poppin's attitude revitalized my self-quarantine life at this moment, and it was fun.

 

From now on, I will learn to attach not just voice to our palate but attitude to the character. Not just for kicks, but for children to see the characters come alive. 

 

P.L.Tavers has always been one of my favorites, and she will remain to be one of my greatest teachers.

 

Just Write.

 

As I feel the solitude from self-quarantine, I can't help but to pick up a book. This time, Andy Mulligan's Trash, written in a first person multiple points of views. I remind myself that it is not as bad as it seems, the situation the world is in. But, I know it is worse than I believe for the children across the world who are impoverished. 

 

When I start to think of the children in Behala, where the story is set, I know there is a lot more suffering in the world than just Coronavirus. Written works helps me to empathize and builds up my knowledge, and even reaches out with compassion to me. 

 

The children in this book never show self-pity, but they show their suffering through their actions and thoughts. I lean on the understanding of Mulligan's subject matter to empathize and learn. I am enlightened by it.

 

Maybe, I should write not to educate or spread knowledge or attempt to preach to children. From now on, I shall show through the actions of my characters of the things they go through, of what someone in the other side of the world feels, just as Rat went through in Mulligan's exceptional work, Trash. From now on, I will write for pleasure and to show stories of beautiful things, without motive. Perhaps someone will relate and someone who will read my writing will empathize with me.

 

I will just write to reach out towards compassion and as a gesture of kindness, and thus, empathizing with those who understand my characters in my writings. I think I will, from now on.

 

Just tell stories. Just write.

 

Coming through a week full of Coronavirus fears made me anxious. But, in the middle of Tuesday last week, I attended Peter Reynolds's talk on his new picture book, Be You. It was an education.

 

His theory of how everyone was an author of life, made me realize that my writing made me an author. Perhaps I was grandiose in dreams, but no one could stop me. 

 

In Be You, I was educated. Peter Reynolds's writing educated me.

 

I was born to be so many things, yet, I became who I have been thus far, and it was okay.

 

Writing taught me so many things, and it never stopped teaching. I found new things to be thankful for, from my own writing, as well as others. 

 

From Peter's book, I realized that he was my kindred spirit, and my adventurous side soared with us. I was not afraid to live a big life, inside my book, and slowly but surely in reality, too. I was always reserved, but with my writing, my voice and resilience showed. It taught me to Be Me.

 

Just Write.

 

 

Secretly, I love the travel time. The talking to strangers inside the plane, the drive to the destinations, the scenery and the drawn out rides. It gives me time to think about what ideas can come. 

 

Secretly, I love writing them out. To understand myself, and my attributes. Writing out my secrets heals me. It may even become a story. It is a form of exhale from the overwhelming fears inside, that someone might find out. Instead, I write them out and let the heavens know. 

 

Secretly, I loathe politics and I hate every inch of writing about them. I seldom read about politics, yet it shapes so many of us. It eats me alive at times because of the secrecy behind it. Secrets being secretive, in the walls of politics.

 

I don't write my secrets out to let the world know, but I do write them out to change stories of what tragedies may come. Sometimes I see a human being with a life less desireable, and I secretly write about them, changing their lives and their futures. Perhaps, there is justice on their behalf. 

 

Secretly, I write because I need the help in writing. That's the truth.

 

Just write.