Diana Kurniawan

A buxom petita calls me "Emeril Legasse," while she calls her co-workers "Bob Villa," and refers to Katherina as Anastasia.  Her laughter brings an echo to the room, and she doesn't mind it if anyone calls her by any other name other than hers. She cracks me up when I enjoy my Larabar and Decaf, because her personality lights up the room.

 

The odd things she does creates a culture of friendship. How I wish I've met her long ago, to make a ripple of laughter with her small dose of eccentricity. 

 

She speaks a different language and amongst her friends, she's a rockstar. I sometimes wish she gets paid more than she does. I wish more people gets paid more than they do, who work low end jobs and at odd hours of the day or night. 

 

When times are low, I don't ask for favors, instead to make the best of the times I have, even in duress and work as hard as I possibly can. I notice the people around me to pick up on their humor and good habits as I try not to judge them for their bad ones. For some reason, it makes my day brighter. Healing through observation, if I may call it.

 

Writing about the quirks of the petita helps me to see her more than just a janitor. She's a bright light in the midst of darkness for some. I was ruminating on the future when she yells to Katherina, "ANASTASIA! Ayuda me!" That brought laughter and for a moment, I was in the present tense. 

 

Perhaps, I should stop thinking about the future as often as I do, because noticing the present is so much more fun. What makes it worthwhile is petita and Katherina, and Bob Villa. 

 

I'm Emeril Legasse. Just write.

How could I write anything with so much tumult inside my soul? I had to forgive.

 

I forgave them all. The sins and the past, the enemies and the unforgiving lives who beset my joys.

 

I forgave jealousies, of all forms with or without make-up, because I finally understood longings for a comfortable life. But, I would never lower myself and dance with the reckless and dangerous, for I care for myself too much after a life of innnocence lost.

 

I forgave myself, for my lack of humility towards their problems. Their needs were diminutive to me, and I to them, and as we batter each other with curses. I forgot the foraging devils who looked to destroy both sides, but I forgave the devil, and I forgave us.

 

I forgave the ridiculous and their egos and all of the in between they've done towards me. They were feeding their needs and I fed mine, but both times, we all made mistakes in the eyes of God, and I was not to judge.

 

I forgave the stoic racists, because my skin color was out of the ordinary and it fueled their anger because their desire to control my outcome. I forgave their prejudices, but I was no fool to fall for their trickeries and to simmer in their abuse. I forgave myself for abandoning them and leaving them behind. I was no longer responsible for their evils, and I had to tend my life to the best of my abilities. I could only stand for justice, and it was and is with God, I stand.

 

I forgave greed and deceit, like the dagger under the cloak of a friendly face who I lived with and took my innocence to be ravaged for their glories.

 

I forgave myself for writing out my heart and being transparent in the eyes of the world. It was the only way I could throw out the anxieties and my own sufferings, otherwise I would be unforgiving. The worst thing to be was unforgiving, especially to oneself, because it would dampen triumphs and overlook miracles.

 

I forgave my own writing, its lack of brilliance and its inadequacies, because only through forgiveness would I continue to write and remain humble as I progress and improve. Forgiveness was requiered to move forward, in everything and for every life.

 

I forgave my appetite and my criticism for my body and physical appearance, because I was never running on pageants, instead running towards improvements and approvals. I forgave myself for what I looked like, in the past, present and the future is unwritten.

 

I forgave sinners for I was born into sin, and God be the judge of the living and the dead, for every sin under the sun. No soul was exempt, and I won't be set apart at the gates of Heaven.

 

I forgave my grammatical errors, because I was learning, and I will always write, and forgive, each moment in time passing.

 

Just write.

 

 

Every writer has a style, a distinguishing lyric to their writing. Gabriel Garcia Marquez and his powerful narrative, F. Scott Fitzgerald and his exquisite picturesque writings, Lois Lowry with her simple provocation that often reminds me of a dragonfly's wings that were delicate from afar and ornate from within reach. Rick Bragg with his taut emotional pull, Maya Angelou with fluid sophistication, Stephen King with his range and John Doer with his musical literature and so many others with soulful writing and deep meaningful prose that left me boggled yet thirsty for more.

 

As a writer, I wished I knew mine. I wrote and will keep doing so forever, but one day, I hoped to be found and loved for something that I didn't know I had. I believed in myself, that I will develop it, and with time, my prose will sound intricately me. Perhaps, in five years or maybe 10, but for now, rest assured that my 15 most likely will develop me further into a work of art in writing.

 

It has been my dream to write beautifully, with a delicate brilliance that reminds of fresh silk spun by a yellow wolf spider after the rain. Fresh, pretty, nuanced, yet piercing through the heart as every sentence hits home and wholesomely brings a bright light into the soul, not dark but realistic. But, I won't try to aim for it, instead I will just let go. Surrendering to the process, because it has to be about that. I won't know when this would be, but my 15 will help me somehow, slowly but surely.

 

This adventure might be forlorned to the eyes of readers, because who was I to ask for a style, when I have never been published before. The old articles from local newspapers meant well for a learning experience, but no way would I be able to call myself a good writer. Fifteen minutes was up, and this was how much I could write for this time, but tomorrow is another day and more skills will be developed. So, I won't say much about style, instead, I'll just write.

 

In Progress. Just write.  

I fell in love with the cracks on the street, worn out and weathered over, yet critical to the ones who drove over it. One of them invited me to a long crevice towards a sidewalk, with a splotch of grass with five purple flowers at Five Points in Denver. The courage of the seeds to grow simmered inside my blood, after a day of grief from a dear friend's death. The purple flowers chose to grow where it landed, bearing the weather and finding its season for me to find it after a long day. I fell in love with it.

 

I fell in love with my own wounds. The swords of women who looked at my back to release their anguish as their stabs drips blood to the side of my lungs. They stabbed through the back bone and the heart, and wanted total annihilation of my life. I nurtured the wound, placing mexiplex bandages, wiping it with Betadine, and out of the wound, came out green mucuous as a sign of healing. When it dried, it stung painfully as I walked, making my stamina higher yet deeper through my soul. 

 

I fell in love with time. The yearning for change and the shortness or length of it, as I wait and wait for nothing in return. The sudden transformation from a second of stroke that paralyzed my dear father. I worked with it, calling for help, as I saw him dropped to the ground. Yet, God gave him time, and time with him I loved. I planned to care for him, every time and again, as time allows and with each moment, I shall cherish.

 

I fell in love with mulch. The sweltering heat toasted the cinnamon and anise tree barks that scents of a handsome British man. I gloved my hands and evened the mulch on the ground. It sweetened my senses and created a dreamy love story inside my mind.

 

I fell in love with the drop of rain on my nape three days ago. Under the heat of sunshine, I raked the ground, and the drop of water from the sky fell on the back of my neck and rolled down my spine. Fresh and sparkled, it created magic in the shape of water above my tanktop. 

 

I fell in love with writing. Even with a blank screen stared at me, it created a moment of trust that I would write and typed with a desire to tell it an honest moment.

 

I will keep falling in love every chance I get and writing it. Just write.

A lone tree with golden leaves in the middle of a prairie, rustling in the wind reminding me of this season of life. Owning it.

A mocked soul, by other writers from different countries, being called Laoghaire on Twitter in public in front of the world for no reason. Owning it.

An angel fallen from grace, broken into pieces, shattered and left to be dumped awaited by death. Owning it.

A beautiful woman, Dutch, Portuegese, Chinese, and Indonesian, naturalized American, and homegrown immigrant. Owning it.

 

What shall be the world's failure, being called by my fellow countrymen and women as a denigrate hopeful. Owning it.

Laughed at by the rich and famous. Owning it.

Left to rot in the hospital after two decades of unrequited love, unprotected heart, fleshed out on the floor yet rose from the dead. Owning it.

 

A life unfinished with so many words to say but nowhere to start with disparaging thoughts and laughed at. Owning it.

A young adult, heck...middle grader inside my soul, with no desire to grow up, but physically unbounded by time. Owning it.

A wonderful sister, aunt, and no Canadian B*t&h like the one who marked me a failure and stalked me at church to claim her fame. Owning it.

A mind tattered and tired, from trauma but trying to make ends meet with early morning shifts and late night caregiving. Owning it.

 

What could I do if it wasn't for words and letters, tied together into vocalized sorrows, angers, love and hopes. Owning it.

Just typing my free write without limitations, unafraid of judgements and a rockstar inside my own world. Owning it.

 

A day without writing would be a torn spirit yearning to wake up from a dying life, although faking death to make them believe they've won. Owning it.

An honest paragraph because I knew of their misconceptions for my human rights for love by those who accused me and ransomed me for a crime. Owning it.

An ace of hearts, trivialized by comedians, harassed by celebrities, taunted by famous personalities. Owning it.

 

Who I've become wrote my stories but I won't succumb to the darkest that follows. Owning it.

 

Just write. Owning it.

Half of this Sunday was full of negative thoughts, of how the past assaults haunted me and the post-traumatic-stress-disorder and depression ruined my life and will amount me to nothing. The name calling, the bullying and the stalking by the perpetrator and his friends along with many others caused me so much heartache and brokenness at one point in my life, and I was reminded of it.

 

The root cause of this reminder was dirt. The main person who hurt me crawled underneath constructions to build them, and he told me that he loved digging in the dirt. Thankfully, my siblings were there with me at this moment and I felt so much love around me, yet I was reminded of the haunting memories.

 

As I wrote my outlines and my thoughts, I tried to get away from my flaws, or so it seemed as flaws. Or were they gifts?

 

I felt so judged by others, although no one was there, simply because of the disorder and depression. I looked at the greatest writers, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, Maya Angelou, JK Rowling, Ursula LeGuin, and so many others, they all had some sort of set backs, yet overcame it. I should be empowered, but today, I felt defeated, lesser than, lacking and not up to standard. I wished there were times when I felt I was good enough to write, but I haven't felt that fullness inside my heart. I won't know when this time would be, but I needed to keep going and to keep learning.

 

I felt like a student all of my life, who was in need of guidance and knowledge, and I felt this way for a very long time, and perhaps will always be this way. Not sure if this was in God's plan, but I felt discouraged because I felt like a student. I didn't fear, or was afraid of writing but I felt not good enough, because I was assaulted and because of it, I suffered from PTSD and Depression. I apologize for the triple negatives, as it ran in my mind all day.

 

I was willing to embrace it, but the people who hurt me was so priviledged, rich and well connected that I felt I had so many enemies. In reality, they were probably surfing today or playing in the water with their families, having a good 'ol time, without even a thought of me. And, I should accept the fact that the PTSD and Depression were my assets and my creativity gone wild. 

 

So the later part of the day, I spent placing weed barriers with my brother, Ron, and my sister, Lydia, stapling the it with a hammer and spreading mulch on top of them. Although, I was reminded of the things I lacked because of the assaults, the PTSD and Depression, in front of me were two people who were crazy about me, holding me steady and kept me focused.

 

My siblings have flaws, but I loved them, unconditionally. I realized that this was how the world and God felt about me, unconditional love. That whatever flaws I had, really was an asset and a form of gift, although it came from a dark portion of my life. My writing might be dark at parts, but bright at others, and together they were touching and honest. My flaws became an attribute, just as Ernest Hemingway and the others I named above gave to the world, despite and might be out of, their mental illness. It was a hard pill to swallow, but I kept it inside my soul. 

 

Just write. Despite the sufferings.

Breaking ground with the pick ax, taking a field of weeds from the root, and raking the ground, my siblings and I worked the yard for the past three days, sweating in the heat. We bonded over measured soil and dirt, creating barriers for rocks and forming a landscape for our garden. My siblings and I worked together as we have done in the past, and the experience gave me a full and wholesome love inside my soul. Without them, I would be lost in a yard full of dirt, without purpose.

 

My relationship with my siblings and parents gave me a reason to write. Since I knew how to read and write, I always relied on experiences with my family to give me the reasonings and wisdom to do so. Without them, I would have no reason to write about the good times and bad, because I would have nothing to support me and my writing would be too morose. There were times when trauma caused me to a complete breakdown, and there was a time when I wanted to leave the planet, but the love from my family was greater than the trauma that I wanted to stay for them. I wanted to tell my stories for them too.

 

I saw myself inside a dream walking with my Dad beside me, sitting in a wheelchair, and I was pushing him on a steady path, as we stopped under a shade. He told me he believed in me, and he trusted me. My Mom gave me time and space to write and kept me going when times were low. My whole family wanted me to write and it shall be. I wrote for them then, and I will write for them from now on. They believed in me, and my Dad told me, "Keep writing, it has to stay." 

 

Writing has kept me alive because the bad times were so bad that I almost died. But, thankfully, my family was there for me and nothing will tear us apart. Not everyone has this support, and for a long time, I didn't believe in myself. I will never aim for world fame or anything extravagant, because I won't write for a prize or for fame, but I will write for the love of my family. 

 

The garden my siblings and I will build together will be something my parents will enjoy, and we will be proud of the accomplishment. Just as my writing will make my family proud, when it flourishes.

 

For now, I will blog and reason, and keep with the faith. For God, for my family, and for me.

 

Just write.

 

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.