Diana Kurniawan

I felt tormented this morning, but at the end, a miracle saved me.

 

There was a large serrated blade that was stuck inside my back between my spine and it has been there for over twenty years. It felt heavy on my soul, as as if it was stuck deeper by those who hurt me in the past. I understood how those who hurt me were well off, having martinis in their yatch, but I've never thought they still wanted to destroy me.

 

For a long time, there were random emails, phone calls, and random people who ostracized. It felt like the Twilight Zone and it felt unreal, as if I was living another fictitious life, but they were there and I couldn't escape their taunts. This morning, I

had to escape hate from those memories that was triggered by random profanity. It reminded me of the haters that traumatized me because it led to violence that were physical assaults. 

 

But, there was this honey bear stuffed animal at a random isle inside a store, and it reminded me of someone dear. His rugged face came to my phone as I saved his photographs and it felt grounding. He didn't smile in the picture, instead a sort of solemn faced in a black t-shirt. I felt stronger and whole. It took a second, not even that...an instant of grounding peace. I told him inside my thoughts that he was mine, and no one else could claim him. In reality, he was far and away, further than just geography.

 

The moment I took to look at him was worth my time. It gave me peace, and I was in love. He may not be reality, but it was my reality.

 

Just write.

He slured his words as I cried in front of the window of the skilled nursing facility missing him at home. His right hand over a small soft pillow and his speech slow and incomprehensible.

 

"I miss you so so much, Papi. I wish you can come home," I told him over the window. "I feel so alone without you."

 

"Pakejambunik," he said. It was a word he uttered that I didn't know how to spell or write, but inside my heart, it meant, "I love you, Diana."

 

I remembered when he was angry when we lived in a small two bedroom apartment in Reseda, after haggling over a pound of shrimp that was being sold by a street corner. The white supremacists told him he was a chink for haggling. He came home in tears from anger, and we sat down over the prejudices in the United States of America. He told me that he just needed a break for the day and the television eased his anger. I watched him calmly erase the anger over racism, like a gentleman.

 

The time when I told him about the assaults and the brokeness erupted a hopeless evening. He told me to not lose hope on all humanity based on the poor example of some. That hatred was limited to violence while love, especially God's love, was vast, deep, wide, boundless, unlimited, and reaches so far, deep and high as the heavens, galaxies, and all of the universe.

 

He told me that the schoolmate who bullied and destroyed my life through the assault was of evil and racism, and her successes were tainted with blood and abuse, just as those who hurt me were abominable to God. That I didn't have to be afraid of the world, and to be closer to God and worship Him, then relay every instant of my life through Him. That with God by our side, my Dad will back me up when I'm working things out with my life, and he will back me up when I make mistakes. My Dad was always there.

 

The time when I met the man whom I asked to marry, only to be found alone several weeks later in struggling heartbreak and hopelessness. My Dad told me that I took his job for him and that made him mad, that even God was angry because I didn't trust the tradition. He told me that it was better left alone, because if it was Godsent, it won't have been broken. The embarrassing stories that I endured and the laughter from the enemies and haters I heard inside my life, because I was so desperate for love, yet my Dad was there to tell me that desperation could only lead to divorces. 

 

The suffering I felt when I was inches away from death, my Dad took the house key and broke into the bathroom door and stopped me. I miss my Dad dearly, and it has been so difficult with the global pandemic because I haven't been able to hug him or kiss his forehead. I miss my Dad, and I felt a huge loss in my life from his stroke. I felt the half of my body was paralyzed from faith.

 

Tonight was a hard day, and I wished I could have my Dad home with me. 

 

In tears. Just write. 

 

 

 

The blanket over me felt hot and damp as my sweat dripped over my eyes. I woke up in the middle of the night and in my turquoise t-shirt and pink terry shorts, I swung the blanket away from me and I found my whole entire bed in a bog in the middle of the forest with trees surrounding me. I took a dip with my foot on the swampy water and the water was soft and cold, almost frozen, with the heat and humidity creating a layer of fog over the surface. I walked inside the bog with my skin immersed in dark mud with no shoes for protection. I was alone, and no other human being could have been in this hellish swamp.

 

The thick mud moved with my legs as I walked slowly hoping to get over to the land. It was near as I saw in front of me, a dead American Bullfrog, with its legs sprawled and its skin ripped apart. It floated by and I squirmed from the sight. As my eyes hoped to see land, a rubber tree convulsed in front of me with its sap spewed out in drips as if candle wax melting from its bark. It was close by and all I wanted was to get to the tree. It throbbed as if it was dying, but surely if life was still inside it, it could be saved. 

 

Land was a few yards and I took a step and climbed over to land from inside the bog, with my pink shorts wet through my underwear in muddy water. I ignored the discomfort and ran to the tree, but a bobcat approached me with red eyes, angry and I stood still. I looked beyond the rubber tree and the forest was in flames, as I felt a snow of ashes dropping from the sky and I looked to find the sun in full orange, enraged. The rubber tree called me to come closer to preserve its sap, its birthright but the bobcat growled. 

 

To my left was dry land with no other living being, and although the trees beyond were in flames and I was stuck in the forest, it felt right to take the path. I abandoned the rubber tree and the bobcat and took myself to the left of everything. I walked in sorrows because the rubber tree felt like home. I wanted to hug the tree, and caress the bobcat, but they were untamed to my fragile life. I had to walk on. 

 

The path on the left felt foreign and as the flames surrounded the path, it had an invisible wall as if tall glass shields protected me. I kept walking with my damp t-shirt and dripping wet shorts and I scratched myself to pull my underwear from in between my buttocks. True discomfort that smelled on my body from the muddy bog.  I kept walking and I kept searching for a way out to a land away from flames and ashes. The orange sun followed me and enraged the fires as it kept raging beyond the glass shields, but I was safe. 

 

After a few miles of nothing but fires and flames, I looked forward and a barren hill was ahead, with no plants, no trees, and no living being. It was tall grass with sunflowers and prairie. I walked on, surrounding myself with the sunflowers, and didn't look back. 

 

Just write.

The pink cotton nightgown I wore draped down to the asphalt as each step I took felt cold and the fog over the road ahead of me lay low to the Earth. I found myself walking down a nameless highway with no cars in sight and the darkness over me showed a bright golden moon. I stopped as the highway stretched far and lonely without connection to life. 

 

I looked to the side of the highway where the grass grew and the soil dipped low. My father sat in his wheelchaiir, and looked towards me and with his slurred speech, he said, "Is God coming with you?" I ran to him, because I wanted to hug him for the first time in six months. I kneeled down in front of him and wrapped his hands inside mine, and I stretched to kiss his forehead. "Don't forget me, and don't forget what I told you," he said. 

 

"I won't ever forget," I replied. I closed my eyes and breathed and raised my face to the sky as the night was bright with the moon closing in so close to me, reaching for my face. 

 

The moon spoke words I was familiar with, "Do not be afraid, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed for I am you God. I will strengthen you, and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand," it said to me with verses.

 

My father held my hand, and kissed my palms, "Remember ice cream," he said. 

 

I couldn't hold my joy as I jumped and my father laughed with me. "God IS coming, and I am here with you," he said.

 

I pushed his wheelchair down the nameless highway, and although no cars were in sight, we rode life together with God.

 

Just write.

In a peaceful meadow I stood on the green grass moist from the morning dew. The skylight was still at dusk as I looked over the weeping willow far yonder. The sky opened at cloud speed and the sun rising with a pinkish hallow. I sat down on the grass, with my flat belly yearning for bedtime stories.

 

"How in all imaginations would I ever see the French Riviera in love?" I wondered. In my white linen dress, with all the purity of my soul as my heart broke in halves because this life was an incubus of scornful men. I wept on the grass with my buttocks wet from the moisture and my face down towards the Earth. Unplanned circumstances led me to a haunting life and although I surrendered, a part of me yearned for the dreams.

 

"Diana!" I heard my Mami's voice and I looked up. "You think too much!"

 

Mami stood holding hands with Papi, in front of the weeping willow. They wore matching blouses of imperial yellow with white linen pants as my Papi waved his hand calling me to come closer.

 

I stood up with excitement as this body was five years old again as I ran down from the hilly meadow to where my parents were. My Papi hugged me as I wrapped my arms around his belly. "I love you, you're my daughter, Diana," he said, endearingly.

 

My Mami hugged me after and told me, "I love you too much," she said, as she wiped her tears. "Don't let go, Mami," I told her.

 

They held me close as I held on as strong as I possibly could, as we walked underneath the weeping willow.

 

"Don't ever let go, Diana," my Papi said.

 

Just write.

I am forgiven, for my past sins and the sins of my Father and those of my ancestors. I am forgiven for the journey that is a struggle and the walk with depression is a constant miracle, away from the devil's plan of total anguish and instant death. This life is forgiven, for anything that I was assaulted for, and for every and any arguments the devils retorts towards God.

 

The life I am is full of mercy and I am a living being of miraculous grace.

 

The forgiveness upon me gives me the right at the King's court and this forgiveness encourages the future, and hate is dumbfounded; because the game that hatred plays is more important than the trophy they claim to earn. I am forgiven for everything that accuses me of sins and I am forgiven for the sins the accusers labels upon me. I am forgiven for every instant evil prayers flies out of the devil's mouth out of deceit, greed, racism and injustice, because this forgiveness wreaks havoc on their selfish needs.

 

Forgiveness is in my best interest and benefits me because the education gives me skills as I walk in joy and fullfilling contentment. I am forgiven because I forgive and strength upholds me and places me at the right hand of God. I love this forgiveness because I breathe in wholeness and love and I even mezmerize the eyes of those who once batters my life. This forgiveness is truth and honesty in the flesh with tangible results that I can touch and marvel as I live with a youthful heart and soul. 

 

I am forgiven with an evergreen forgiveness, especially given to me, and no one else because I am not just special. I am holy and divine because I forgive. I am not crazy because I am forgiven and there will never be any form of insanity about me, for I am diligent and prodigious and victory is a guaranty. I am forgiven and there is no mark of victim over me, instead a mark of love, greatness and favor on my forehead. There is no defeat over me or my life, because I am forgiven and it is a winning sign.

 

Just write.

I stood up from my after-school meditation, because today's practicum via Fox.org gave me a migraine. Hybrid high school wasn't the same after the White Plaque. Coronavirus was so yesterday, because the vaccine worked well and I got my shots just two weeks ago for the four times a year recommended dose. But, the White Plaque truly was something else. It gave me chills for three days, yet milder than the CoVid19. 

 

Outside felt right just now, so I took my Street Paddle elongated to its five feet maximum length with a rubber bottom. Passive enough for a toy, but as aggressive as the Shaolin Kung-Fu Wooden Stick. I grabbed my granola cubes and pistachios packets and put them inside my shoulder pack. I took my longboard and turned on its anti-gravity button, and shoved the remote in my pocket. I stood on it, and it synchronized with my street paddle. I opened my bedroom door and flew downstairs to bid my farewells for the afternoon.

 

"Dad, leaving. Need time for myself. I'm going to see, Rambo," I told my Father.

 

"Don't stay out too late. By 7, the sirens will come on in our zone. It's Denver, and not the country side, so check the time," he said.

 

Rambo lived with his sister near the old Five-Points, now labeled as Zone 5, where the emancipated orphan youth were allowed to live independently. He never knew what it felt like to wear spray deodorant. I tried it on when I was five, but it wasn't anything special.

 

Flying by Colfax was like a mall. Everyone had their hoods on and their masks with protective goggles. The White Plaque attacks the cornea and could lead to blindness. Crap for some homeless folks, most became blind and they never received their indigence benefits due to no permanent address.

 

My stomach growled and my granola cube was out of reach, so I took my pistachio packet  and ripped it apart thenemptied the content into my mouth. I lived in Capitol Hill, because Father was the surgeon for Banner. Since they transformed into a Socialist Hospital, their logo became a blue flag with a red cross in the middle. Father told me that it was our justice.

 

By the time I got to Rambo's pad, his bike was not there. He must be on a walk somewhere. Emancipated youths won't go far on foot, because they have no vehicle license until they turn 21. Crap kept happening, and it was out of control since the White Plaque. But, Rambo was special. He survived with his sister, because he told me that he had the grit of a slave and a desire like a pirate on alcohol. Rambo will never die, and I will make sure he lives forever. I felt a revolution was brewing inside me....and I needed Rambo. Where could he be?

 

Just write.

I was never meant to be famous. I knew since I was born. But, I was meant to write, and whether I will publish or not, it was never up to me in the first place. It has always been a number of things at play in the universe and at times, I felt at odds with the whole world. I wrote since I could create words and composed sentences, for pure healing. I felt it was the sentence of my life and I may die never becoming a published author, but the process may lead me to a place of health and solace. 

 

The fame never belonged to me in the first place. It has always been for those who led me to a place of comfort and compassion. The un-named Indonesian lad who offered me Kopi Lewak at the compound at the base of Mt. Bromo in Java, who offered counsel and told me that the whole world was full of assault victims, and I should never be afraid of life. The stranger who told me that I will one day reach my destiny, in whatever form it may be, near the telescope at the wall overlooking Mt. Bromo, where God spoke to me and told me, "Enjoy your sunrise, as if it is your last."

 

The fame goes to the Ethiopian man who asked me for some sustenance in the middle of Central London, as I handed him a Larabar and he replied, "You deserve a Pulitzer prize," without knowing if I could even write. To the Briton in his tank top who kindly obliged to my request to share a table at a crowded Starbucks, so I could write out my busy thoughts before I dropped into sobs from symptoms of PTSD and Depression. To the Mayan little girl in Mexico, who negotiated on a fair price and convinced me to buy a pair of handkerchiefs to bring to America. Her skills touched my heart. They deserved all of the fame in the world, although the world was never kind to the random strangers who didn't fit into a mold of a model or a billionaire.

 

The fame goes to my friend Kristin who showed me a rainbow patterned men's brief boxers with a goofy picture of an Afro-Puffed man near the groin area. Her comedy came in a blonde bombshell full of suprises. To Sarah Schantz, the author of FIG, whose craft inspired me to become raw and honest leading me to a steady flow of juices of creativity. The fame belonged to the volunteers at homeless shelters all across the world whose self-less devotion meant confidence in humanity. 

 

There were plenty of famous people worldwide, if we could look closer, that I never asked for fame, instead I lived it because I was already the apple of God's eyes. That even if I were to die in my sleep, I would die happy, knowing I wrote for 15 minutes in full honesty of my heart. Never regretting the path of how I got here, because it was not entirely my own doing, but through good works and faith, I was led to a peaceful life. 

 

The fame goes to the millions of artists, carvers, painters, illustrators and designers who worked behind the scenes, enjoying their art unfold without the barrage of media and publicity. Their earnest patience and humility nobled the process of artistic value. Their love without the selfish desire for attention created authenticities grounded to the soil, for their blood, sweat and tears. 

 

The fame goes to the legions of victims of racism, including myself of the assaults, all across the universe. We deserve a voice to be heard, for every sorrow we endured and every heartaches we overcame. Writing it all down as investigative reports to God.

 

And so, I will write, not for fame or glory, but to heal and for all fairness in life that I deserved; because of the scars upon my back, my heart, my mind and my soul. It was my destiny.

 

Novels, short stories, verse or poetry, psalms, lyrics (yes, I sing), or chicken scratch, I was meant to.

 

The fame goes, to you, O dear reader. 

 

I love you. Just write. 

There is a fire inside me, burning as if it is a candle lit with a thick enough wick to last a lifetime. At times it flickers from the wrestles in life, but somehow it keeps burning. Without this candle, I would have died, a long suffering death. I tried to put it out once but the wick flares and catches fire spontaneously. I will not fan it out, instead I will feed it.

 

This fire flares when joy sets in and it feels like adrenaline, and it roars when I am in meditation or in relationship. It consumes me and I don't mind it. It stays in between my chest and it is inside my soul. Without this fire, I don't speak in gratitude. When the fire flames, I enjoy every moment of it, and I savor each passing time, although the world is a wave of doubt. I don't stagger nor put out of passion for life when the fire keeps burning, and when there is a time when it flickers and almost dies, I look for another flame to fire my soul alive.

 

Fires can die, when the glass ceiling comes close and suffocates the flame and at times, discouragement comes. Yet, I look at the neverending wick I am given and I know I am made with a special light. Untamable but not savage, passionate but not jealous, and sincere but not mild. The fire flames even when no one cares for it, because it doesn't requiere a lighter since it burns from its wick.

 

Might be a hassle for birthday cakes, but I only need this one flare to keep myself from the storms of life. The fire refines me and gives me a path and a plan. I never ask for its purpose, because I know I am its life. This fire will stay in me, loving me, and keeping me aligned with life's journey. Sometimes, it does become difficult, because this fire is made for more than this body and mind. I can only follow its wisdom to hope for a better tomorrow and I won't be dismayed for it is my help. 

 

This fire burns eternally and forever more, and through it, I can write my destiny. Just write.