“Oh, oh, I’m so sorry, I lost
my balance” as Opa Johan feigned staggering, stumbling from behind towards his
wife and kissed her.
“I was a fool,I had no courage, imagination, you know? I should
have done it in my Valentine days and surprise my lover with a kiss as present.
Better late, than never. Ha. Ha.”
Hear the delightful sounds of water murmuring, gurgling, babbling in a brook or
splashing, rushing, roaring in a river; of fallen leaves, the golden paddy, Alang-Alang (sedge) rustling and trees whispering, sighing in the wind; the patter on the roof, the merry song of frogs and children playing in the rain.
Listen to a Tekukur (wood-pigeon) calling, high up in a tree and one senses the vastness and stillness of the sky. Hear the breeze-like sound of cicadas (Uir-Uir) and one is transported to the country and the woods. The “croak” of a frog, the “tuit” of the night-bird, the “thud” of a fruit falling from off its branch, or a gecko’s “tok-keeeeh” makes one feel something of the essence of the night.
Then hear such wonderful sounds as simple and natural as the crackle and the sizzle in a frying pan, or water dripping musically into a basin, of chiseling marble or chopping meat,
a horse walking or trotting through a lonely road; the chimes of a clock or
church bells, a lovely voice through a telephone, ...
Only artists create music out of sounds. How eloquent music is. It is even more eloquent then speech. Really, music must be made up of lyrics in sounds.
Hearing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, we would be inspired to march bravely to the end unable to surrender. We would desperately fall in love with Porgy’s Bess, though she’s “such a liquor guzzling slut” in Gershwin’s opera and weep with Bach in his Matthew Passion.
Poetry must be music translated into verse, a painting must be music in line and colors.
The gamelan (Javanese Music) sounds like coming from some celestial abode, borne on the deepest awe-inspiring gong, as if to pervade our being and the world. And how fascinating is even a recitative of a dalang (puppeteer) or a qori(ah) who recites the Koran.
Yet, no less delightful are such little pieces as a prelude of Chopin, or a sunny, carefree, play-full ‘sonatina’, or songs some people refer to as Pop. All the same, they perform them with no less feeling than opera artists.
Our Pesinden (a woman aria singer) sings as beautiful as the Lorelei; even old men would feel like young again and they make husbands forget about their wives. The Kecapi-Suling (the flute and zither) sounds so heart-rending, one would contract heartache.
These little pieces certainly are as wonderful as the best of symphonies, opera’s or oratorios. They’re as wonderful as a cricket’s chirping to the nightingale’s song, or as falling Sawah (wet rice-field) water to the Niagara Falls, or as a firefly to the dazzling sun.
Indonesia Times, May 27, 1987
Note
Diasebad,
some ten amateur singers, without having singing lesson, vocal training before,
start exercizing, singing in old age of over 50 years since May 1999. Many are
over 70, near 80 years by now.
Yet, we’re so
proud and happy, we, old agers, still have the courage to perform, sing and
enjoy this beautiful, difficult piece.
Diasebad, some ten amateur singers, without having singing lesson, vocal training before, start exercizing, singing in old age of over 50 years. Many are over 70, near 80 years by now.
This is Ketty singing solo in a Diasebad concert of 2003.
Lovely Sights
Seeing the “rambutan Aceh Lebak” tree with plenty of colorful fruits, abundant as bougainville flowers. Seeing lake Pamulang rippling as a beautiful giant carpet. Seeing storks slowly sailing by, high up in the sky. Looking at the full moon from below a tamarind tree, .. Suppose I were an artist, I’d like to paint them.
Happy to be welcomed by hundreds, thousands crème-colored wild flowers along the path-way. How pure, how fair, how fresh as a glorious morning. I name it the “Morning Glory” of Indonesia,
My Morning Glories
Yet, lovelier is the flower I met on the hill in Cinangka. Greeted with a charming smile as in a dream. Not dressed as stewardess, not educated as university student, not as Mona Lisa in a frame, not sitting in a luxurious Mercy, bare footed, without slippers, no make-up and just living in a bamboo hut. That’s, Eve, as jamu (bitter-sweet-hot drinks) vendor.
As a lotus flower in muddy waters, Eve is the most lovely, charming sight.
And I
thought of David who had Uriah placed on purpose at the foremost front of a war
in order to take his beautiful wife, Bathsheba, after he’s killed. Involve, persuade,
order someone, people to war is a subtle way to sacrifice lives for an issue,
sake, cause.
And I
thought of Bush who had not sacrificed just one but many thousands lives in the Iraq
war, not to mention of the many disabled and the grief and sorrow of many
loving mothers and fathers losing a son, of many loving wives losing their
husbands, of many loving children losing their fathers, of many lovers losing
their fiancee. And they’re American people, not to mention the huge losses,
griefs, sorrows of the Iraqi people, except they’re not human beings.
And as
I think of Bathsheba, anyone is always his or hers to decide, not her husband or
anyone. Why should she be ashamed of and feign mourning?
Besides,
were I David, king with great authority, rich, young, strong and handsome I
couldn’t do any the better.
And I
thoughtof Nathan, was he really a man
or was he not a man?Were he not blind
of feminine beauty, charm, would he be ashamed to upbraid David.
Best is travelling on foot to
really enjoy, see, hear, feel most of the time, then running, then cycling,
then driving, then flying, except flying, sailing on a hang-glider as I imagine
it. On foot you could walk on
path ways, along the sawah dykes, ford a stream, climb up a hill, a mountain,
cross a narrow bamboo cross over,have a
lodging somewhere on the road and have adventure with the unknown.
Walk a path
Ford a stream
Climb uphill
Rice field
Village road
Bamboo cross over
With cycling, you always have to be on the watch of the road, instead of the beautiful scenery, just as driving a car. You can only enjoy when you stop on the way or drive, cycle very slowly, as the slower you ride, you read, you eat, the more you enjoy. Flying is too fast, you get just a glimpse of a beautiful far away view.
When one day I’m not cycling any more will I have my travel start by bus, or train then on foot and return in a similar way.
But the best way is by boat, slowly upwards or downwards a stream, for days enjoying unknown sceneries, that’s as I imagine it; The Kapuas in Kalimantan for me, for you the Mississippi in the U.S., the Seine in Europe, the Volga in Russia, the Ganges in India, the Yellow river in China, the Nile in Africa,...
“Ha. Ha. The best way by boat? Pak Chew is behind the times.” That is his euphemism of – dullard –dunce - simpleton. “He doesn’t know that the best way is to travel by mind; into the past, the future, into the heavens,universe, ...” So comments Opa Johan.
Why should I copy a
blogger’s beautiful photo, video, writing and so burden my computer, when it
were open for anyone to see, hear and read it. Were I to need it for my blog I
always could mention his blog address and title without having to copy.
I’ve no fear. Who would
copy, steal mine? Except, unless he wants to degrade, lower himself with other
one’s writing, photos, videos and when he does so, instead, he is helping in
publishing them for me. Ha. Ha.
Were you to find
something so beautiful, so invaluable of old, or new, almost forgotten, unknown,
left abandoned, would you gladly pick, save and upload it to You Tube to share
it with the world to be preserved for “eternity”? Would you still do it, bear
the penalty, charges of doing so rather than delete, remove it?
I remember having read
of Mendelsohn who picked up and saved a music score of Bach’s John Passion were
I not mistaken, intended to be used as wrapping paper at a meat shop; of Lin Yu
Tang who bought and saved “Six chapters of a floating life”, a beautiful story,
almost forgotten, ina book stall, now
translated, published in a book: “The Wisdom Of China.”
Sure, we have saved,
stored that which is beautiful, invaluable in books, saved in VCD, DVD, CD, Art
museums, saved by the very rich owner, but in You Tube they’re saved, preserved
for ever, not only for one, the few, the chosen, the rich, ... but for the whole
world to see, to hear, to enjoy.
This cottage lies in a
valley, surrounded by trees, fishponds, cool, peaceful in a village somewhere
in Tajur Halang. How long will it last? The owner might sell this paradise one
day for the joys of money, or is forced to give up for the building of a new
large real estate, ...
Close Up View
These lotos’ are no
more on lake Kemuning. They’reweeded
out.
AndI thought of the many paradises I’ve visited,
as I travelled running or cycled into the country: Serpong, Jurang Mangu, Muara
Karang, ... sold and now gone forever. They’ve proudly changed them into
Jakarta of today, of technology, to provide for the threatening population
increase with new tall buildings, houses, toll roads, noise, traffic jams,
pollution, stress, ...
This is a picture of a
charming village, Cilenggang, as I picture it in words, for I hadn’t got a
camera then:
The country road, so
cool, so shady and winding. The village houses small, so welcome, not cold and
proud as grand mansions, the gardens without borders, ...
Wow, how delightful it
was to be welcomed by a girl with a branch of red colored “rambutan” just taken
from the tree after being tired, running in Cilenggang, which I did not eat but
took home to decorate the dining table.
Though there was no
park, just by going down a path through a bamboo-wood, I got a captivating view
of Eden’s garden in a valley below.
And as Adam, my eyes,
delighted, enjoyed to see a verdant earth, a waterfall on the hills far away
and the rice fields near below. My feet tripped, danced alonga winding path, following a brook with rich
vegetation bordering the sides and lovely, laughing, washing, bathing nymphs
and women. My ears feasted on sounds of falling water in the rice fields and
fishponds. I deeply breathed thepure fresh air, I bought me cendol (gelatin
drops in iced sweet coconut milk) of a vendor, sitting somewhere lingering on a
trunk, my heart so grateful, rapturously singing, though it was just in
Cilenggang, not in Bali, the island of the Gods.
And that was but some
twenty years ago – perhaps some of you are not yet born - and now they’re no
more. Who would miss them?
I wish I could picture, the moment he stepped out of the train, walking fast with his empty pikulan (a pole with two hanging baskets on each end).Too difficult to shoot in an overcrowded train.So said Opa Johan to his wife.
This is a photo I shot
in the train. Imagine the impossibility to meet him three times in a same
compartment.
He is over 90 and
what’s so special is that he still teases playfully a young woman vendor in the train and she
equally teases him in return when she’s passing by. The worst thing for a man
is when a woman regards him as not a man, you know? When I asked him whether he
still has his wife, he said, sure. She’s just 30. I don’t remember how many
wives I’ve got, while it’s a pity, I’ve only got just the first one, that’s
you, you little fool?
And I thought of Liz
who won a young husband for the 8th time in her sixties, but he won himself a
young wife when he is over 90 years. That’s more than winning an Olympic gold
medal. Ha. Ha.
“On my biking travel today, a young lovely village woman greeted me with surprise, awe, ‘are you alone!?’ And what so wonderful is,” he whispered, “that she still honored me, an old scarecrow, as a man, not as a piece of wood or empty air, you know?”
"I should have said:
‘Sure. Would you accompany me?’ or perhaps better
‘Would you marry me?’
but alas am I always late for a good reply. Now am I ready, prepared, the next time. Ha. Ha.”
“So don’t you be piqued. Be grateful your dear, good husband didn’t hide this from you. I deserve a kiss, not less.”
