The Richest Man In The World
The richest man was Adam, not Bill Gates. Though he had no money, no education at all. He’d got Eve and the whole world to himself.
April 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Opa Johan's 17th Birthday Present To His Granddaughter
Opa Johan’s 17th Birthday Present To His Granddaughter
Opa Johan’s 17th Birthday Present To His Granddaughter
You promised that you would kiss your grandpa on your 17th year, not before. Tomorrow is the day.
Now will I tell you a secret what you, your pa and ma, grandma, your aunt and uncle who witnessed, didn’t, couldn’t know. There never was a grandpa who was so lucky, that his grand daughter, such a funny little baby then, would ever steal a kiss, or forced him, her grandpa to be kissed. You’ve paid me, far more than what you ever could pay me with your promise. I certainly am proud, grateful for what I’ve got. That’s what all of you didn’t know.
So now, will I free you from your promise to kiss me on your 17th year as you never could know how you would feel when you’re a sweet 17. That would be unfair, cruel. This is now your 17th birthday present. It was just a bet teasing you, between a little girl and a grown up.
But if you insist, want, now you’re grown up, to still enforce yourself a kiss on me, go ahead and don’t you ever repent, regret, grieve, be sorry afterwards. Ha, ha.
That’s Opa Johan’s e mail to his granddaughter in the future.
March 2009
You promised that you would kiss your grandpa on your 17th year, not before. Tomorrow is the day.
Now will I tell you a secret what you, your pa and ma, grandma, your aunt and uncle who witnessed, didn’t, couldn’t know. There never was a grandpa who was so lucky, that his grand daughter, such a funny little baby then, would ever steal a kiss, or forced him, her grandpa to be kissed. You’ve paid me, far more than what you ever could pay me with your promise. I certainly am proud, grateful for what I’ve got. That’s what all of you didn’t know.
So now, will I free you from your promise to kiss me on your 17th year as you never could know how you would feel when you’re a sweet 17. That would be unfair, cruel. This is now your 17th birthday present. It was just a bet teasing you, between a little girl and a grown up.
But if you insist, want, now you’re grown up, to still enforce yourself a kiss on me, go ahead and don’t you ever repent, regret, grieve, be sorry afterwards. Ha, ha.
That’s Opa Johan’s e mail to his granddaughter in the future.
March 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Memories Of A Volley Ball Coach 1
Memories Of A Volley Ball Coach 1
These are what I still remember of my girl teams.
About 6.30 in the early morning you could hear some of them passing “bub-bub-bub” exercising in my little yard and warm, sweating and a bit dirty especially after rain, they enter their class room. Every Sunday morning they played at school from about 8 to 12 o’ clock without their sport teacher. The tallest is not yet 1,60 M and the smallest not yet 1,40 M. They hardly can afford to smash. Yet she, the smallest is captain. Imagine her so small and not yet 40 kg as she is doing her upper hand serve.
Once, on a Sunday morning, this little captain asked the sport teacher of the midday school to be allowed to play against his team. They were third classers. I watched them play unnoticed. And every game they lose, but they didn’t give up, didn’t mind as they were but second classers. My little captain pleaded him to play again and again. Their sports’ teacher smiled, perhaps an unhappy smile, he was reluctant and would rather like stop playing as my girls played better and better, till after more than four games playing they succeeded to beat them and so willingly stop playing further. In the real match in the Jakarta Pusat championship among secondary schools they again beat them.
When she was a medical student - she’s still very small this little captain - there was a championship among medical faculties. She had a very bad, weak team as they were not team mates of her club. Yet they reached the final. She forced herself to almost play solo, she played for two, three, … , for to depend on her team mates would be certain defeat. Their opponents complained her for using this strategy but it wasn’t against the rules. And they won. She was so happy as it was almost an impossible, incredible feat to win with such a poor team, though she got cramp after the volley ball match.
My girl team were charming, slender, small feminine angels, little fairies. Once, during the warming up session before a match we only exercised “receive, set up, over, and so on” so simple, while our opponents were at least 1,65 M, tall giant girls with very big thighs and strong arms caused perhaps by weight training. They impress spectators and opponents during the warm up with their smashes. The spectators thought that we would be mashed by them. Yet we beat them, though we almost couldn’t “kill” them, but they “killed” themselves by a lot of blunders, “unforced errors”. Ha, ha.
But we never could win from the adult women club teams who were even much taller and stronger. But I don’t mind. They played reasonably well for players of such short stature, that is of normal or average height. There’s no well known volley ball club would ever take my girls.
March 2009
These are what I still remember of my girl teams.
About 6.30 in the early morning you could hear some of them passing “bub-bub-bub” exercising in my little yard and warm, sweating and a bit dirty especially after rain, they enter their class room. Every Sunday morning they played at school from about 8 to 12 o’ clock without their sport teacher. The tallest is not yet 1,60 M and the smallest not yet 1,40 M. They hardly can afford to smash. Yet she, the smallest is captain. Imagine her so small and not yet 40 kg as she is doing her upper hand serve.
Once, on a Sunday morning, this little captain asked the sport teacher of the midday school to be allowed to play against his team. They were third classers. I watched them play unnoticed. And every game they lose, but they didn’t give up, didn’t mind as they were but second classers. My little captain pleaded him to play again and again. Their sports’ teacher smiled, perhaps an unhappy smile, he was reluctant and would rather like stop playing as my girls played better and better, till after more than four games playing they succeeded to beat them and so willingly stop playing further. In the real match in the Jakarta Pusat championship among secondary schools they again beat them.
When she was a medical student - she’s still very small this little captain - there was a championship among medical faculties. She had a very bad, weak team as they were not team mates of her club. Yet they reached the final. She forced herself to almost play solo, she played for two, three, … , for to depend on her team mates would be certain defeat. Their opponents complained her for using this strategy but it wasn’t against the rules. And they won. She was so happy as it was almost an impossible, incredible feat to win with such a poor team, though she got cramp after the volley ball match.
My girl team were charming, slender, small feminine angels, little fairies. Once, during the warming up session before a match we only exercised “receive, set up, over, and so on” so simple, while our opponents were at least 1,65 M, tall giant girls with very big thighs and strong arms caused perhaps by weight training. They impress spectators and opponents during the warm up with their smashes. The spectators thought that we would be mashed by them. Yet we beat them, though we almost couldn’t “kill” them, but they “killed” themselves by a lot of blunders, “unforced errors”. Ha, ha.
But we never could win from the adult women club teams who were even much taller and stronger. But I don’t mind. They played reasonably well for players of such short stature, that is of normal or average height. There’s no well known volley ball club would ever take my girls.
March 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Josef Fritzl
Josef Fritzl
I wouldn’t have told you this Mr. Chew, haven’t I read Ovid’s fascinating, challenging thoughts in his “The Metamorphosis” about loves of the gods and nymphs, between brother and sister, between mother and son, between father and daughter, of illegitimate love affairs.
Suppose it wasn’t against the rules, the law, public decency, suppose we’re so far that we aren’t shocked anymore that a father makes, could make love to his daughter, I don’t think he would have to take resort, measures to force, commit a crime by concealing, imprison, rape his daughter. They might live happy together. Besides, were he so free and has a lot of choices, he wouldn’t take his daughter.
We can’t force human nature to obey the laws, standards of decency, which are obsolete but we still enforce them. No religion, no constitution could ever bar, thwart human nature. Sure we could prohibit, imprison, punish, threaten a man with hell and even the death sentence but it does not still his desire after the “forbidden apple” nor prevent man to stray, do it again and again.
Would you blame, hate, accuse, curse your mother, a young inexperienced, unmarried girl, if she in desperation aborted you? She even might be prosecuted as committing a crime.
“No” I said.
Fritzl is just one of the so many victims of our civilization. Man’s not a thing, a computer, a robot, you know?
So spoke Pak Arif to me.
March 2009
I wouldn’t have told you this Mr. Chew, haven’t I read Ovid’s fascinating, challenging thoughts in his “The Metamorphosis” about loves of the gods and nymphs, between brother and sister, between mother and son, between father and daughter, of illegitimate love affairs.
Suppose it wasn’t against the rules, the law, public decency, suppose we’re so far that we aren’t shocked anymore that a father makes, could make love to his daughter, I don’t think he would have to take resort, measures to force, commit a crime by concealing, imprison, rape his daughter. They might live happy together. Besides, were he so free and has a lot of choices, he wouldn’t take his daughter.
We can’t force human nature to obey the laws, standards of decency, which are obsolete but we still enforce them. No religion, no constitution could ever bar, thwart human nature. Sure we could prohibit, imprison, punish, threaten a man with hell and even the death sentence but it does not still his desire after the “forbidden apple” nor prevent man to stray, do it again and again.
Would you blame, hate, accuse, curse your mother, a young inexperienced, unmarried girl, if she in desperation aborted you? She even might be prosecuted as committing a crime.
“No” I said.
Fritzl is just one of the so many victims of our civilization. Man’s not a thing, a computer, a robot, you know?
So spoke Pak Arif to me.
March 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Live's Irony
Life’s Irony
Sure, I’m but an amateur church choir leader but as I grow older am I more daring, I have almost no fear to be blamed as an ignoramus as I’m not very impressed anymore by renowned, famous, celebrated names. And as you exercise, perform the same pieces with your choir of just ten musically uneducated singers of 60 to 80 years old with the vocal score; technically, sure, the masters, professionals, are very far away and high above you but we also have our own musically beautiful lines. I doubt whether all the audience in concerts hall really could appreciate, value, enjoy concerts, even if they give a standing ovation, perhaps it’s virtuosity, musically perfect. They can’t discern a really good conductor and orchestra that’s making the music live, have the music speak.
I can enjoy, appreciate, feel more than my children and even my grandchildren, as I remember their CD’s. Diana Krall singing: “When I Look In Your Eyes” or Natalie Cole: “Smile”.
Were the sermons not so awfully tiresome but beautiful as beautifully performed singing, I would gladly visit the church every week. And I remember the Dalang (puppeteer) who recited even in “crooked” Indonesian instead of in fluent Sunda language, yet so fascinating, the Dalang who could keep his audience awake the whole night.
And I thought of a book that was praised and crowned, but after rereading, it in later years it was very poor, dull writing, indicating the poor taste of the jury. But as a student of the secondary school, who had the courage to judge a book that’s ranked as literature?
As I’m growing older life becomes rich, deeper in thoughts and feelings. Life’s just starting I’ve a lot of time for myself now and imagine, I’m still so young, I’m not 80 yet. I get me a PhD in music someday to scare my listeners, ha, ha. That’s life’s irony. Old age? It’s just the beginning. I’m even better than in my younger years.
March 2009
Sure, I’m but an amateur church choir leader but as I grow older am I more daring, I have almost no fear to be blamed as an ignoramus as I’m not very impressed anymore by renowned, famous, celebrated names. And as you exercise, perform the same pieces with your choir of just ten musically uneducated singers of 60 to 80 years old with the vocal score; technically, sure, the masters, professionals, are very far away and high above you but we also have our own musically beautiful lines. I doubt whether all the audience in concerts hall really could appreciate, value, enjoy concerts, even if they give a standing ovation, perhaps it’s virtuosity, musically perfect. They can’t discern a really good conductor and orchestra that’s making the music live, have the music speak.
I can enjoy, appreciate, feel more than my children and even my grandchildren, as I remember their CD’s. Diana Krall singing: “When I Look In Your Eyes” or Natalie Cole: “Smile”.
Were the sermons not so awfully tiresome but beautiful as beautifully performed singing, I would gladly visit the church every week. And I remember the Dalang (puppeteer) who recited even in “crooked” Indonesian instead of in fluent Sunda language, yet so fascinating, the Dalang who could keep his audience awake the whole night.
And I thought of a book that was praised and crowned, but after rereading, it in later years it was very poor, dull writing, indicating the poor taste of the jury. But as a student of the secondary school, who had the courage to judge a book that’s ranked as literature?
As I’m growing older life becomes rich, deeper in thoughts and feelings. Life’s just starting I’ve a lot of time for myself now and imagine, I’m still so young, I’m not 80 yet. I get me a PhD in music someday to scare my listeners, ha, ha. That’s life’s irony. Old age? It’s just the beginning. I’m even better than in my younger years.
March 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Choir Conductor's Thoughts On Sounds
The Choir Conductor’s Thoughts On Sounds
That’s a very bad melody of the ice cream vendor, so loud and out of tune as is an old worn out disk on an old gramophone. It would lower our sense, taste for music and so make us stupid hearing it every day and people would n.b. like it someday.
How I like to hear Vannessa Mae playing the violin in pure, full tones. “Sure, you like her instead her playing the violin” si Upik teased.
To be wakened by soft sounds of warbling birds or the chimes in a Swiss music box instead of a frightening alarm clock. Hearing it would make one ashamed driving a motor cycle without a silencer.
To hear the “clung-cloong” sounds of bamboo pieces hanging together in the wind or an old fruit vendor calling in playful pantun (verse) or the “tok-tok-tok” of the bakmi (noodle) vendor as though knocking on a door of fortune.
Instead of being terrorized by a horn war in a traffic jam,what about a horn with the sound in broken chord like this: C-G-Bes-E-A-C upwards and close with F-C-E-A or F-A-F-D as to induce, encourage, inspire drivers to hum, or whistle his own improvised melody.
How beautiful the warming up vocal exercise of my choir: mi - do - mi - mi re si la sol do fa la mi – re do, a wonderful line from the Ave Maria of Mascagni higher and higher up then lower and lower down bit by bit.
How melodious the Javanese/Sunda pelog scale: mi, fa, sol, si, do. Just play or sing what ever note of it and you would have a beautiful melody. Not to say of the slendrog scale which is on purpose, intentionally a bit out of tune as compared with our scale. And I think of Gershwin’s “I loves you Porgy”: do mi sol si re – do, sol, mi, sol – la do mi sol si – sol me do mi - … so simple, yet so beautiful.
I hope one day to buy me a gamelan set to enjoy their rich, beautiful sounds and have my children, grandchildren and me playing together once a week. I would learn and then teach it to them.
From Ekonomi Neraca Juli 11, 1997
That’s a very bad melody of the ice cream vendor, so loud and out of tune as is an old worn out disk on an old gramophone. It would lower our sense, taste for music and so make us stupid hearing it every day and people would n.b. like it someday.
How I like to hear Vannessa Mae playing the violin in pure, full tones. “Sure, you like her instead her playing the violin” si Upik teased.
To be wakened by soft sounds of warbling birds or the chimes in a Swiss music box instead of a frightening alarm clock. Hearing it would make one ashamed driving a motor cycle without a silencer.
To hear the “clung-cloong” sounds of bamboo pieces hanging together in the wind or an old fruit vendor calling in playful pantun (verse) or the “tok-tok-tok” of the bakmi (noodle) vendor as though knocking on a door of fortune.
Instead of being terrorized by a horn war in a traffic jam,what about a horn with the sound in broken chord like this: C-G-Bes-E-A-C upwards and close with F-C-E-A or F-A-F-D as to induce, encourage, inspire drivers to hum, or whistle his own improvised melody.
How beautiful the warming up vocal exercise of my choir: mi - do - mi - mi re si la sol do fa la mi – re do, a wonderful line from the Ave Maria of Mascagni higher and higher up then lower and lower down bit by bit.
How melodious the Javanese/Sunda pelog scale: mi, fa, sol, si, do. Just play or sing what ever note of it and you would have a beautiful melody. Not to say of the slendrog scale which is on purpose, intentionally a bit out of tune as compared with our scale. And I think of Gershwin’s “I loves you Porgy”: do mi sol si re – do, sol, mi, sol – la do mi sol si – sol me do mi - … so simple, yet so beautiful.
I hope one day to buy me a gamelan set to enjoy their rich, beautiful sounds and have my children, grandchildren and me playing together once a week. I would learn and then teach it to them.
From Ekonomi Neraca Juli 11, 1997
Monday, March 9, 2009
On Good And Bad
On Good And Bad
When we have to search after the bad qualities of something than that is an indication of something which is good. When we have to search after the good qualities of something than that is an indication of something which is bad.
As for good things it’s so good it has almost no faults, so we have to search after its (farfetched) faults, and as for bad things, it has so many faults, we have to search after its (farfetched) qualities. Good or bad, praised or blamed, they still remain the same, What is good is still good even if we blame it and the bad still bad even if we praise it.
November 1973
When we have to search after the bad qualities of something than that is an indication of something which is good. When we have to search after the good qualities of something than that is an indication of something which is bad.
As for good things it’s so good it has almost no faults, so we have to search after its (farfetched) faults, and as for bad things, it has so many faults, we have to search after its (farfetched) qualities. Good or bad, praised or blamed, they still remain the same, What is good is still good even if we blame it and the bad still bad even if we praise it.
November 1973
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
My Little General
My Little General
There he lies on the battlefield, my little general. He doesn’t ride a horse in a bright uniform with stars on his shoulders, without an army and commanding orders, but panting, soiled, wet with his sweat in his shirt, crying,
He, who is the pivot, the backbone of his team is wounded. He, who is so needed to aid his team mates under the heavy pressure of the “enemy” in the final battle. Now his younger, weaker Benjamin should take his place, he who would need his protection.
Crying, not of the pain, he almost didn’t feel it, but powerless, to see his comrades fight an unequal battle without him.
With tears and among his sobs he cried, called aloud to his friends his command “hajar” (fight) and they heartened him in return not to worry.
And that command in crying, broken language by their invalidated leader was heard and whoever heard it shuddered in awe.
They fought, I watched in breathtaking suspense as though watching a coin rolling (not spinning) not knowing which side it would turn, or as a rope dancer walking on a cable which is stretched taut between two high buildings. And they won the battle while it would be more reasonable that they would be defeated.
A command of a real general couldn’t do it better, no courage, no words more inspiring an army. And I remember Beethoven’s 9th Symphony “… laufet Bruder eure Bahn, wie ein Held zum siegen.” It was as though they couldn’t surrender, it was impossible to surrender, they would rather drop, “die”.
“He’s my little general” said his Volley Ball coach as he remembered it almost forty years ago.
There he lies on the battlefield, my little general. He doesn’t ride a horse in a bright uniform with stars on his shoulders, without an army and commanding orders, but panting, soiled, wet with his sweat in his shirt, crying,
He, who is the pivot, the backbone of his team is wounded. He, who is so needed to aid his team mates under the heavy pressure of the “enemy” in the final battle. Now his younger, weaker Benjamin should take his place, he who would need his protection.
Crying, not of the pain, he almost didn’t feel it, but powerless, to see his comrades fight an unequal battle without him.
With tears and among his sobs he cried, called aloud to his friends his command “hajar” (fight) and they heartened him in return not to worry.
And that command in crying, broken language by their invalidated leader was heard and whoever heard it shuddered in awe.
They fought, I watched in breathtaking suspense as though watching a coin rolling (not spinning) not knowing which side it would turn, or as a rope dancer walking on a cable which is stretched taut between two high buildings. And they won the battle while it would be more reasonable that they would be defeated.
A command of a real general couldn’t do it better, no courage, no words more inspiring an army. And I remember Beethoven’s 9th Symphony “… laufet Bruder eure Bahn, wie ein Held zum siegen.” It was as though they couldn’t surrender, it was impossible to surrender, they would rather drop, “die”.
“He’s my little general” said his Volley Ball coach as he remembered it almost forty years ago.
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