Diana Kurniawan

The roaring fires of the West covered the hills with ashes as clouds during the deadly global pandemic. Hurricane and thunders swept the East as death took more than a million lives. She came after a defeated run and a grim outlook on the majority.

 

Poised and calm, she took her chance with the legendary underdog from the incumbent. With her, hopes of an era for dignity for women worldwide was brought home. Her life as a working woman who married later in her age, showed a walk imperfect yet perfectly compassionate for me. Women were the backbone of the world, and she proved the right to be a part of the whole.

As I worked my shift as the working class and survivor, for once I felt at ease with her in office, because I knew my human right was represented. Memories of my struggles as an object of racism, sexualization of my rights through assaults and trauma from violence, lingered inside my mind but I knew ignorance towards the cause won't be normalized with a female in the Oval Office. 

Through centuries of the United States of America, now a woman was second in command with the world's power. Her presence gave little girls and women in this world the drive for more and the justice for equality and representation. 

As I wept when my Dad cried from missing his family as he was recovering from the stroke, I told him of the progress this country made during his lifetime. He looked to me and smiled, because he was happy there was a positive change in the world.

 

The courage she gave during a tumultuous time, deserved our respect as she willingly served her country. Her leadership of empathy as she fought for democracy proved America had an open mindset with integrity and decency. 

As the world will heal from loss of lives and community, she will be loved. As second in command, and a step forward to a global change. 

Just write.

His orange and brown striped beanie was snug on his head as he stepped his left foot forward facing the merchandise. He straightened his arms forward pretending to ride something. He vroomed with his lips pursed as if he was riding a motorcycle. He turned his head to the left and saw me. He stopped and fixed his beanie. 

 

"I like this," he said, pointing to the little two wheeler with training wheels with suspension brakes and tilted wheels.

 

"That's a bicycle," I said. "It's a Schwinn."

 

"Yeah. I like it," he said. 

 

"I never had a Schwinn, but I bet it's fun," I told him and smiled.

 

"I don't need this stuff," he said, pointing to the training wheels.

 

"Who taught you how to ride a bicycle?" I asked him.

 

"My Dad. He can do everything. But, my Mom said it's not true," he replied.

 

"Depending on what he does for a living, maybe he can do everything," I said.

 

"MOM! What does Dad do?" he shouted to the next aisle. I was scared I might have gotten myself in trouble with his Mom.

 

"He's a Tax Attorney, Brian, why?" his Mom said.

 

I became skeptical of whether Brian's Dad really could do everything.

 

"He's a tax attorney," said Brian, and smiled at me.

 

"He can do his own taxes," I said, and shrugged my shoulders, although I wasn't sure he really could do everything.

 

"I think he can do anything," said Brian. I overheard his Mom saying, "He really can't, honey. I do everything," she said.

 

"Mom!" Brian whined. "Can I have this bike?"

 

I started leaving to the next aisle, because I might have gotten into a little private family discussion.

 

"Mom, I want this bike so Dad doesn't have to ride alone," said Brian.

 

I smiled, because I think Brian misses his Dad when his Dad goes cycling to the mountains. 

 

"Your Dad can do everything," I whispered to Brian.

 

"Mom, I want this bicycle," yelled Brian. His Mom walked to the bicycle aisle with her cart, and said, "I wanted to get your arts and crafts stuff."

 

I left the aisle, because I might have gotten Brian and his family in trouble. 

 

Just write.

I thought of the protestations of my dreams, and how to go about them. Faith was the start from it, but there were setbacks accrued from wrong friendships and bad choices. Sometimes I lacked confidence, and the drive for those goals dwindled down because of the negative words of a few monsters in my past.

 

However the distraught, I seemed to return to my love of language. Turning catacombs inside my nightmares into honeycombs inside my mind. Transforming doleful prose into sparks of enlightenment and clever opinions that were fun to read and critique. My morning meditations came with outlines and donuts of scenes eatable to my empty pages.

 

My love for languages began with Bahasa Indonesia and English as my second language. The promethean spirit inside me awoke with stories and journeys of fantasy, folktales, dramatics and thrillers, and I never stopped.

 

I knew that with the setbacks, years must develop and I needed patience for the waiting game. But, the love kept transforming and evolving, then growing and revolutionizing. It was difficult for me to contain, thus this blog. Perhaps too personal, but what writer skipped characterization and conflict? I had to ignore the criticisms, for the sake of my mental health, but I won't stop writing.

 

Just write.

The crowd stood towards the middle of the lawn where Giuseppe Baptiste was getting ready in the center and Pearsons Rockfield sat on a bench beside him. Giuseppe Baptiste had his violin and began to pluck his strings, rehearsing the first few notes. The crowd became silent as I looked around with Karina, Rambo and my Father.

 

Giuseppe Baptiste played the first few notes again, and swayed his torso as he strung the notes high to perform his abstract composition. He strung low notes and screeched high tones as the crowd ooohh-ed and aaahh-ed. I had no idea what sort of recital this was, but it was not normal.

 

"What the hell is he playing? Does he know how to play?" I asked Karina.

 

"I think it's supposed to be some kind of music?" said Karina.

 

"The man is playing dissonance and its hurting my ears!" said Rambo.

 

The crowd clapped as they were probably the only people in all of Denver who were fans of Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield.

 

"He's nuts!" I said. "Its all a whole bunch of screeches and plucking!"

 

Giuseppe Baptiste plucked the strings of his violin and stroked another high and low notes that sounded like a dying cat howling. 

 

"This is crazy, he's not a violinist," said my Father. "I thought he was supposed to be mesmerizing?"

 

Giuseppe Baptiste raised his arms with his bow and violin and jumped off the ground in circles, then resumed his screeches of high and low notes, giving me a headache.

 

"I'm never going to another one of his performance. This is horrendous!" I said. 

 

"We still have to stay to speak to him about what happened with Karina," said Rambo.

 

"Are you sure he's sane? He looks and acts like a crazy monkey," said Karina. 

 

Pearsons Rockfield clapped his hands, but the whole performance was not the sort of music that needed clapping. I was utterly confused. I've never seen a most horrible performance and the sad thing was, the crowd kept Oooh-ing and Aaah-ing, and it drove me nuts.

 

"I can't handle it anymore!" I said, closing my ears. "He's horrible!"

 

Giuseppe Baptiste broke a string and kept playing with his bow looking torn out of its horse hairs. He looked like a mad man.

 

"This can't be music in any universe, can it?" asked Karina.

 

Rambo cried because the sound was just too much to handle. He wiped his tears and said, "Something was wrong with his childhood, and I'm sorry."

 

"I want this to be over now," said my Father. 

 

Giuseppe Baptiste kept stringing his violin and Pearsons Rockfield kept clapping, and it was just the first number.

 

"How many songs was he supposed to play?" asked my Father.

 

"I don't know," I said. 

 

"We're going to die listening to this," said Karina. Boris and Betina began to cry and my Father pushed the stroller away from the lawn. I stood in the middle of the lawn closing my ears. 

 

This was not a good morning.

 

Just write.

"What do you mean you want to record him? He's coming in 30 minute," said Rambo. There were less than a hundred people there as was expected since Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rickfield weren't the icons the Denverites admired. They were sorted as tyrannical despots people disliked and the countrymen and women abide by the rules because they didn't want to be taxed higher than the current rate. Everyone was afraid of The New Order Regime, and with the Black Mollies who took over the shops and transformed half of Colfax into fish stores, the guerilla warfare, and Choi Militia, their political group became too savaged to admire.

 

"He's going to play the violin in the center lawn, so we can use the violin time to record but don't stop the camera and get him to talk to us afterwards," I said. "It's the only we can do it, and if we can get close enough to him, introduce him to Karina."

 

"I just want to meet them, and ask them why they used violence to take over the world," said Karina.

 

We stood in front of the lawn at Capitol Hill, and it was 7 in the morning. Rambo hardly slept, and I didn't sleep at all. Karina slept but the babies woke her up in the middle of the night, and they were with my Father now.  He will come closer to the start of the recital, hoping we would be close enough to have a face to face conversation with Pearsons Rickfield and Giuseppe Baptiste.

 

Karina was scared as she kept biting her nails and kept looking around the lawn. She suddenly said, "I miss my twins," as she began to tear apart. "I'm worried I would be killed by their men who recognized me."

 

"Don't worry, we're here, and we won't let you face them alone," I told Karina.

 

"We're unarmed and we just wanted to meet him and we can say that we were huge fans," said Rambo. "Then we can begin to ask questions about their past, and why they decided to use violence to enforce a worldwide militia."

 

"It won't be friendly," said Karina. "I will be shot."

 

"You won't," said Rambo. "We will bring Boris and Betina with us. They will be our helper."

 

"Using my twins as bait?" asked Karina. "They were illegitimate children, but they deserved more than that."

 

My Father arrived after a long walk with a stroller for the twins to be comfortable. "Did the performance start?" my Father asked.

 

"Not yet, they will arrive soon. There aren't many people around," said Rambo.

 

"But it looks like there are about fifty people here, some sitting on the greens. Not too bad. It's not like other countries where they are really crazy about Giuseppe Baptiste," said my Father.

 

The clouds covered the sun and the crowd on the greens stood up as the limo for Baptiste arrived close to the sidewalk.

 

"Here they are," said Rambo.

 

Just write.

 

I ran like a beast, because the grim reaper chased me since birth. I ran because my struggles overwhelmed me and with the loneliness, they spoke danger to my life.

 

At times, I won't have anything inside my mind, but a presence of darkness loomed over me, asking for my surrender from this journey. 

 

I ran like a beast because I won't run away from my life. It was my right to live and love although with an empty heart.

I believed in respite from mental anguish, and running was the only way I knew how.  So, I ran like a beast, and I won't stop, forever, if I may.

 

Just write.

Dana called my father late after the evening at the Post building, and he sounded worried.

 

"So Rockfield married twenty times and became alone and cynical. When he met Giuseppe Baptiste, he just received his ordination to become a priest of the Catholic faith," said Dana, looking behind him towards the door as if he was expecting someone to break through it.

 

"Was that the same time Giuseppe Baptiste also became an ordained priest?" asked my father.

 

"Yes, and that's when they made a pact to rule the world and the way people shop and meet their social circles," said Dana.

 

"Oh my God, because they wanted to have the power to control people's lives?" Rambo asked.

 

"Exactly, and the way social connections are shaped in this world so their regime would be in power forever," said Dana, looking behind him.

 

"Oh my God," said my father. "This was because they never got to have the lives they desired? But, why a priest?" 

"So people will trust them more, just as the way they always dreamed of. Giuseppe was a noble background and Rockfield was too, but no one loved them," said Dana. "I guess it's a revenge for the sufferings they felt from rejections and ostracism."

 

"Oh my God," Rambo said. "They felt jilted by the world."

 

"Why didn't anyone help them back then? So they didn't have to end so many families and changed the course of history so terribly?" Asked Karina. "I am now an orphan, and it's an injustice and the Ting Dynasty deserves better."

 

"Oh my God," said Dana. "I just realized that Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield are both without progenies, and their roles, if found guilty of corruptions, will have to be replaced by a completely different human being. Which means..."

 

"Betina and Boris deserve it, but Karina doesn't want the throne," said my father.

 

"I wish to remain in peace and help them, Pearsons and Giuseppe, but I wished I knew how," said Karina.

 

"Help them? Even though they were behind your parents's murders?" asked my father. "They deserve punishment."

 

"We will have to get their statement that they won't hurt Karina," said Rambo.

 

"We have to meet him and show him who Karina is," I said. "Just face him and ask him why is it not okay for Katina to exist in peaceful harmony. We already know The New Order men hurt Karina."

 

"We will record a video of Karina and me, introducing to the world who we are and what Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield have been doing to the world. We have to abandon the Tier system and have transportation system the way a normal society would function," my father said. "The way the world runs now feels backwards and archaic, even with the advancement of our technologies."

 

"We can negotiate with them, and we can play it after Giuseppe finishes with his violin performance," said Dana. He looked to the door behind him, but there was no one there.

 

"Okay, get on with our work," said Rambo.

 

Just write.

 

The dense fog enveloped the front windows of my car this early morning, but I drove through it slowly at 30 miles per hour hoping a fox won't cross the highway 287. Permutations of what could happen to my life spiraled to the fears of an unknown destiny. Those fears chased my peace like a hungry bee for a spoonful of honey, just eating my mind as I kept on driving.

 

Suddenly, there were two blinking lights, blurry but visible, orange and bright. Those fog blinker lights gave me a sign of the right path, as I drove in between them on a stable road although slushy of snow. It gave me a strange sensation inside my mind, as if it was a guide I never asked for that showed during my dark times. I forgot how I kept acknowledging the dark, but didn't appreciate the light that came in the multitudes of forms like those who loved me throughout all these times in my life.

 

My happy co-workers who said hello to me this morning, and my own Mom, my brothers and sisters, my beautiful friends and God, the glittery donut pillow. The dense fog inside my life were those who hurt me in my past, and they appeared like my shadows under the sun that brought fears in the dark. But, when the struggles became so rough and I could hardly cope, those fog blinker lights appeared and although blurry, it took my attention for a moment. Those God winks reminded me to be grateful and to not fear the dark, or the fog, but to slowly approach the road with patience, faith, hope and persistence. 

 

I still won't know what the future holds until I lived it, and although there would be times when I fear further attacks from those who assaulted me sadistically, I promised my Father to never let go. The drive to work was slow, but I was on the right path, because I knew my drive was for good intent to provide for my family. I may have fears that suffocated me because I almost lost my life in the past, but I won't lose hope because those blinker lights were more visible now. I became so good at spotting them, that one day, no fears would beset me.

 

Just write.

Two days of spiralling thoughts from missing exercise and irregular sleep left me withdrawn. But, there was a pinky donut pillow that called my name, begging me to rest my head on it as it glittered in the store aisle. There was a moment of peace from a smile from a little boy and his wave to me, and a baby's wink gave me a giggle. Everything felt surreal, but I knew God was winking at me.

 

I went about my days with a broken heart of still recovering from whatever ailments went inside my head and the daily triggers that came with PTSD, but often there would be a small moment often unnoticeable, unless truly being present with yourself. The small patch of flowers on the sidewalk, the white roses that were still overbloomed although it was noticeably Autumn. The smell of eucalyptus oils that I had on, lingering throughout my days, and a friend who understood me and loved me with all that I was.

 

I had a friend when I was little, whose family was close to mine, and I never knew I would be in contact with her again, but it happened during my pressing time as well, and she sent a message through Twitter. The most inconspicuous moment, turned out to be the most rewarding.

 

God winked at small moments, not large ones. The big moments felt small compared to the long lasting effects of the small moments. God was near me, the whole time when I was down, although I felt so unvaluable and dispensable. He was trying to tell me that He does love me, and I was still the apple of His eyes, even during my struggles.

 

Just write.

Writing is an act of faith for me, so is never giving up. My life has been an adventure often full of turmoil, but I keep writing throughout my days, although not paid at every instance, because I know that if I keep writing, I will stay alive. As if I am to scribe my life to God as a report to Him, so He can read from heaven of how my days and nights are spent. 

 

There are sunshines and rainbows, and flowery moments and not everything is dark in my writing. But, when there is darkness inside me, I still write about it, to blog it, especially to God. My fear is not the perceptions of the reader anymore, but whether or not my writing serves its purpose to heal me. For once, my need to heal superseedes my desire to publish anything in this world. It is more important for me to write and write with good intention for the sake of my soul, than for the sake of commercialism or popularity.

 

I know a lot of writers want to have the literary agents and the contracts and publicity, and so do I, but I don't mind the wait and the process. I am allowing myself the journey to write, rather than ust becoming a writer with an overnight sensational story. It happens sometimes, a rags to riches story of a broken writer who suddenly becomes famous. I somehow know that I will not be as lucky, and I don't mind the work and education. Maybe, just maybe, that's what the literary bodies want to see, persistence and drive, instead of a miracle from God. They want to see the dose of reality, of a woman who is a living survivor, working through her daily struggles throughout her life with writing as her medicine. Perhaps, that's the proof the world needs, a survivor with her guts, blood, sweat and tears, pouring out with God at His mercy to give her the justice she deserves.

 

As long as I have these empty pages of my blogs, and the pen in my hand, I still feel alive. There is no money to compensate me, but the healing powers I feel inside is worth my time. This is why I will never give up, because everytime I write, there is a life force out of a mustard seed that grows inside of me, giving me the energy to keep on going. I don't mind the wait. I don't mind the journey. Just keep writing.

 

Just write.