Bag It (A Movie Review)

“What a documentary. I feel like being awakened with a little slap,” was the first thing creeping into to my mind after watching “Bag It”, a 2010 documentary directed by Suzan Beraza.

Last Monday on 6 May, my creative writing class did not come out as usual. Since our lecturer Mas Dalih couldn’t make it to the class, his friend Mbak Abmi took a charge of the class instead. Thank God, she said that we were going to watch this thought-provoking documentary entitled “Bag It” throughout the class.

The film shows us that the ubiquity of plastics in our daily lives has a great impact to the earth ecology as well as the whole beings on it. Jeb Berrier, as a host of this documentary, let the audience know how the production and usage of plastics today are considerably excessive. The plastics are omnipresent, and those are often merely used single time. Without considering the effect to themselves or their environment, people buy and use products packed in plastics, then just simply throw the bags away. What they don’t realize is, the usage of plastics could potentially carry numerous of serious disease to people. They also damage the earth biological life, to mention some in the documentary are the birds that died of swallowing the bottle cap, which made of plastics.

As a documentary, “Bag It” smoothly shows us a substantial issue of our environment nowadays: the matter of plastics as one of major global pollutions. The facts it presents are packed in an informative way that is eye-opening yet also entertaining. It wouldn’t be great unless the film is enclosed with the solution. Fortunately it does. This documentary luckily offers an applicable resolution to the issue it raised: by reducing the consumption of plastics, and use the other alternative instead. After watched this film, guess I’d better do something, start with a little part of my life, like bring my own tumblr or shopping bag rather than contributing to the more bunch of hardly decomposable waste on our beloved mother earth.  

Sajak Matahari

Matahari bangkit dari sanubariku.

Menyentuh permukaan samodra raya.

Matahari keluar dari mulutku,

menjadi pelangi di cakrawala.

Wajahmu keluar dari jidatku,

wahai kamu, wanita miskin !

kakimu terbenam di dalam lumpur.

Kamu harapkan beras seperempat gantang,

dan di tengah sawah tuan tanah menanammu ! 

Satu juta lelaki gundul

keluar dari hutan belantara,

tubuh mereka terbalut lumpur

dan kepala mereka berkilatan

memantulkan cahaya matahari.

Mata mereka menyala

tubuh mereka menjadi bara

dan mereka membakar dunia.

Matahri adalah cakra jingga

yang dilepas tangan Sang Krishna.

Ia menjadi rahmat dan kutukanmu,

ya, umat manusia !

Yogya, 5 Maret 1976,

W.S. Rendra

*P.S.: There should be a video of Cassiopeia's (my Creative Writing Class group) interpretation on this poem, but the uploading keeps ended up error. So terribly sorry about this. However the interpretation video can be watched on the other Cassiopeia members' blog right here or here or here (basically it's a group interpretation so the video is the same). Thank you for your understanding..

Experience the Eruption

Afrinta Puspandari was lying down in her room; sight over tv, remote in a hand, leapt from a channel to the other and abruptly halted on a news. “The headline was about mount Merapi condition, that at the time has given a sign of nearly erupted,” she said while retrieving her memories of the volcano eruption back to September 2010. “The effect hasn’t shown up to my neighborhood yet anyway, so I could still manage myself to be calm”.  That night, this freshman of English Department of Universitas Gadjah Mada went to bed as the usual. The atmosphere was light until her boardinghouse neighbor shouting at her door “Fintaaa wake uppp!!!”

Heard her name being called, Finta rushed to the door and quickly opened it. It turned out the girl next door was about informing that the Merapi volcano had just erupted. Even from her boardinghouse downtown in Gejayan, the horrendous rumbling could make the neighborhood awaken. Terrified of another following eruption, that night the girls slept side by side, as if they were on a pajamas party. Pajamas party without the general excitement, but fear.

When they woke up the next day, Finta stepped on something dusty, smooth yet slippery. There was ash raining restlessly, from the volcano scattering to every direction, piling up on the ground, floor, and the windowpane. That morning she meant to get some water in a minimarket nearby. However, by such polluted air, with pyroclastic flow in a distance, Finta who wanted to breathe safely found no mask left. Thus, the girl chose to dip her handkerchief in a little amount of water, and wear it as the substantial mask. She then went by her motorbike, under 20 km/hours since the range of her view could only reach within 5 meter.

The next morning, there were a number of inboxes on Finta’s cell phone. The messages were generally inquires her condition during the eruption period. The other texts from her college friends informed that during the eruption, Universitas Gadjah Mada was set on holiday. The next moment occurred was that two of her friends, Maria and Fitri, called Finta, firmly said, “We’re going home tonight”.

Three of them then went to Tugu station that night. Once they arrived in the place though, a shocking sight had just greet them heatedly. The station was crowded with mass in a shapeless queue, long lining up beyond the ticket booth. Just as they tried to gasp for fresh air, a young average-height security told them that the queue had reached over two thousand people. After being in that seemingly airless place, they decided to come back the following day. But by the time they arrived at the station, even before the station staffs operate, the precisely similar sight of the day before appeared to haunt them, again. They looked at a huge monitor displayed the train schedule there, figured out that of the train they were going to go by, there were only five seats remained. “As I was the skinniest one, I stealthily cut the overrated queue,” Finta said vigorously. “Then head over heels I run towards the ticket booth,” she added. “Guess what. I made it. Three tickets to Bekasi”. And she grinned in her feeling of gratefulness.

Little Less Conversation

March 9, 2013

            It was half past two and I was so sleepy. The weather of Jogja was so nice, the wind blew its friendly chill air, the sky looked so bright and blue. At an instant, a sensation of whirling in my head plus the grumbling tummy shot me right on my nerves. I need to go the canteen soon, I thought. But then I had an assignment to do. An unusual assignment requires a bunch of guts if you show it publicly.

To talk to any object around you, the unanimated one.

For an assignment, this is pretty weird; but for me, it isn’t. It’s like an escapism from the real life I’ve been used to. So I decided to work on it; ‘the tummy can wait’, I said while stroke it lightly. Then I tried to find my object. Voila, my eyes abruptly stumbled upon some little creatures marching on a great, old wood.

Me:     Hello, little fellas.

Some of the objects just carried on to which way they were going, while saying back, ‘Ohaaai!’

Me: What are you guys up to?

The red little one lifted his chin, blank-faced, looking as tired as I am. In a deep low voice it said, ‘Sleeping.’

Me:     Nah. Don’t try to be sarcastic, you little ant. These past few months the weather has already done that.

Ant:    Well, you see. We’ve been working so hard while you sit there trying to chat with us…so.

Me:     I see, I see, excuse me then. Have you had your lunch yet?

Ant:    No time for lunch. We need to get these crusts to our home. Now you better get out of the way, otherwise we have to get the other way round twice as far.

Me:     Oohkay, I move. But please let me do a little talk with you. You can chat with me while you’re working on, okay? Puhleaaaase I need to do this for an assignment.

Ant:    The hell are you doing? Seriously? Begging to a little ant?

Me:     I think….so. Eh? This has gone far too absurd, but come on.. Let’s chat

Ant:    Try. Me.

Me:     I will. Um, what do you like to eat?

Ant:    Crusts. Of bread, of cake, of sweets, of fried egg, of tempe goreng.. Why do you ask so?

Me:     Let’s go to the canteen with me. I’m going to buy some tempe goreng there.. You may have some.

Ant:    And what would I pay it with? A leaf? Besides the canteen is way far from here. I’d rather work with my friends here, being independent, you know..

Me:     I’ll treat you. Look, the canteen is just a couple feet there. It’s within reach

Ant:    Well no, thank you. You forget of our size. We are the little one.. A couple feet for you means a whole day long journey for us.

Me:     Don’t be like that. I’m not…that big either. My friends often call me ‘Cil..cil..’ and it means my size is also below the average.

Ant:    *laugh his head off* You are. You’re different from the people of your lot.

Me:     Am I? In what way?

Ant:    Your size. As we are, you’re also the little one.

Me:     Shut it.

Ant:    Okay. Now you get mad. Guess our conversation is going to end soon?

Me:     I think so. But wait, I’m not mad. I'm just…

Ant:    You’re just tired.

Me:     I am.

Ant:    Then you’d better get a rest soon, little girl.

Me:     I will. But don’t call me like my friends do, you little ant.

Ant:    Why? Am I not one of your friend?

Me:     Yes you are. But it’s not like you’re any bigger than me.

Ant:    Yea right. Don’t call me little too then.

Me:     Fine, I won’t call you so. 

Ant:    Deal.

Me:     Good. Now I got to go.

Ant:    Me too. Now off you go.

Me:     Yeah you too. So long, ant. *wave goodbye*

He smiled gently, replied, 'See you later, girl.'

Malioboro

Who doesn’t recognize this legendary street? Well, if you don’t know, I suppose at least you wouldn’t really find it sounds much unfamiliar. It is Malioboro. This renowned trademark of Yogyakarta, Indonesia, is a main street located in the center of the town, also known as the kilometer 0. Most of the time, this main street is appeared to be pretty much crowded. On the main road itself, vary of numerous vehicles go by, and sometimes halted by a bit of traffic-jam. On the west side of the road, a great deal of tourists and vendors filling up the veranda of row of a number of shops. The sellers display their various for-sale goods or service, once in a while warmly offer them to the tourists with a hope that some would be attracted to buy. Meanwhile, the tourists are either consumed to buy the goods, or simply just go for window-shopping. Perhaps some are merely lingering there for the sake of enjoying the dense traditional atmosphere of the place. Some nights or days, groups of street artists would vigorously serenade their hearts out. 

That is what you will see of Malioboro these days. Have you guys ever wondered how this place looked like, years, or may be decades ago? Now let’s imagine we can travel back to this spot with a time machine. The time machine drops you to the exact location of Malioboro, many years ago, by the period of post-colonial days. And this is how it looks like

The sight of the street was blatantly different from Malioboro nowadays, don't you think? If the portrait were not in grayscale, guess the environment was a lot more greener, embraced with masses of high trees that greet people alongside of the street. One might say that the street was broader, but it’s not. It may appeared so, though. Actually, it was just way much cleaner, free of the crowd of vendors in front of the moderate number of the shops, of which influenced by dutch-architecture features. The street was much simpler in appearance, without advertisement all over the place, and the decorations there were not many, but still nice. The traffic of this street that laid from Tugu Station to the Yogyakarta Palace was also less arranged, without the street border, without traffic signs, without zebra cross, and without the one-way traffic rule as it is at this present time. The pedestrians, not as crowded as these days, were walking on the two sidewalks at the east and west side of the road. On the road itself the vehicles that pass by were mostly consisted of those eco-friendly one, such as bicycle, pedicab, and two or four-wheeled horse carriage. At the time, the cars that go by on the street apparently could be count by your fingers, and the appearance was like that of Mr. Bean’s car, the Morris Mini Cooper.

Now now, unfortunately our journey to the past-time Malioboro has reach its end. What do you think of 'the now and then Malioboro'? I think that would be soo nice if the good points of  this old street are combined with its current version. After all, Malioboro has always spread a friendly inviting vibe. It was beautiful. And still is.

The Way I’m Digging out Myself

            Who am I? How do I get here?

          These two ostensibly simple questions never really come out as trivial as it sounds. Somewhat it is what defines who we are today. This means our history. For me, these questions will always get me trace back to the first time I could freely inhaled my first air in this world. It would be a real long story, seriously; from the moment when they granted me the name Alia Arsy Arya Arga, to the journey of my wild high school times.

First of all, you probably get attracted to my full name. My parents had deliberately set all A’s as the initial four letters of each part of my full name. Weird, eh? Well, my creative Dad once admitted that he was mostly the one who took charge of its bizarreness. Yet beyond its oddity, Mom and Dad had enclosed some hope and prayers in it. The terminology of my first name, ‘Alia’, comes from an Arabic word means honored. My Dad told me that he formerly got the inspiration of my first name from a great airplane named Alia, when he first saw it landed on Halim Perdana Kusuma Airport. It turned out that the plane was a Jordanian Queen’s whose name is Alia as well. So yeah, basically, my Dad named me after the Jordanian’s first lady. The next one is my middle name. ‘Arsy’ is also an Arabic word that refers to the throne of God. Whereas ‘Arya’ is a word originated from Javanese which generally means a knight. The last but not least, my surname, ‘Arga’, is the Javanese word of mountain.

As if this overrated full name is not enough, my Dad had ever mentioned his secret intention of choosing my last name. I was like, ‘Wait..what? Seriously, Dad, this can’t be more intimidating…’. Oh, yes, girl, it can. Have you ever heard of Jayabaya’s prophecy? It’s an old Javanese prophecy that foretold if Indonesia would become a prosperous country someday. Maybe this is the first time you hear it, so let me explain. The prophecy said that Indonesia would be a great country someday with one condition: once it has already had been reigned by 5 Presidents whose last syllable of surnames met the requirement of ‘NaTaNaGaRa’. Can you get what I’m just saying? Because frankly I’m having a bit difficulty explaining this too, but I hope you guys could grasp what I mean. Carry on, so the last syllable of my last name is ‘Ga’. The point is, my Dad was secretly hoping that his daughter could possibly fulfill the fourth syllable of the prophecy. This also presumably means then, that he had already carefully calculated the time in which his daughter’s age would be appropriate to be a President. Gracious. I feel that this is pretty heavy.

Well, initially, I can’t deny that I felt so intimidated by my parents’ highly idealist hopes of me, by which represents through the meaning of my name. Fortunately, during the last year of my high school period—when I was so bewildered with the sophistication of the school and, to which path should I lay my feet on afterwards—my Dad reminded me again about the meaning of my name. Here came the moment when I was contemplating of my next step. Apparently, that time I got a revelation from my own full name. So this is a sort of unifying my parents’ hopes and prayers plus my love of language and culture: I have decided to be an Ambassadress in the future. I should apologize to my Dad later, since I'd rather choose to be an ambassadress instead of a president—sorry, Dad. To sum up, this whole story of my name, in some way, is what guides me to this place, to my first choice—English Department, Universitas Gadjah Mada. Therefore, thank you, Mom, thank you, Dad. I feel inspired. I feel grateful. I feel glad. And I feel blessed.

My Creative Writing Class

Approximately 4 days ago, Monday, February 18^th, 2013 was my first day of the 6^th semester. Okay this was Monday, the day of which a number of souls would still feel like cling onto the dear holiday. Admittedly, at first that was exactly what happened to me too. However, that was just a temporary displeasure. I remember then that the opening subject for that Monday was Creative Writing class. The first thing comes to my mind when I heard the word Creative Writing, I was like, “Great! This subject sounds fun. I should definitely take it”. Of all the choice of subjects in my schedule, at least I feel lucky I got this enjoyable one. It's like an oasis in the middle of a desert. The first meeting was already so good, even though the class was kind of quiet. Mas Dalih, the lecturer of this class told us to make a blog as an assignment. Well, this is it. Our first assignment was the writing of five senses. He taught us that creative writing is not about telling your readers, but rather showing them of what you actually want to say. It's like dragging the readers to your world of imagination: let them see what you see, what you smell, what you taste, what you touch, and what you hear. This Creative Writing class is indeed an alternative of escapism to free your imagination. Thus, from that moment on, I felt like I got my first presupposition right. This class is gonna be amazing.

Can You Sense Me?

See Me

The first thing I remember of my favorite place is its state of boundless-like. As far as my eyes wandered, my head tilted around, all I could catch sight of was the seemingly higher and broader sky than the usual. Far away before me spread out an endless horizon and abundant amount of water. I didn’t even have to struggle perceiving through the clarity a couple feet beneath where I stood. Once in a while the wave rolled into little ringlets toward the shore, gently blurred the scenery of numerous of colorful fish that kept on playing around the corals. When my head turned over eastward, the sun gave such friendly warmth, though it was still shining shyly in-between the row of coconut trees. Now it feels heart-warming as I retrieve my memory to the old time at my favorite place. The time when I feel serene peace in an open outdoor, in Pacitan, East Java, Indonesia: a beautiful beach named Srau.

Smell Me

The stench of unfinished laundry never fails to make my forehead to my eyebrows frown. It is sure a great distraction from whatsoever I have been doing. Such smell is a thrust to my olfactory, and it could potentially sink people’s mood as well as mine. Every time I inhale that kind of malodor by chance, all I can think of is to spray as much fragrance as possible. That, if I can find any of not-so-striking perfume nearby, either way round I would try to gasp for some fresh air right away. The more nerve-racking moment is when I find out that the smell actually comes from the outfit I’m wearing. I really need to get rid off of it immediately. Otherwise, it would feel like committing suicide by choking on such stale-like stench.

Taste Me

Angels know what it feels like to taste my favorite food. People would generally love it: kids can hardly resist it, adults might as well enjoy the taste of it, and elders would likely find it digestively friendly. This sort of dessert tastes sweet and yummy, sometimes with juicy fruit flavor, but I’d rather love mine to be the chocolate one poured with cream upon it. Anytime I feel upset, this little dessert could do as my personal sedative that calms me down. Rich in flavor, creamy, milky, and when the cream melts down in my tongue, it will leave me craving for more. This chocolate pudding is officially my all time favorite food, I even have no idea how this dessert could cast its magic ability to draw me a silly smile from ear to ear after eating it.

Hear Me

I usually wake up to the sound of my alarm at half past four in the morning. Nevertheless, this morning I didn’t hear that tinkling jolly song of Depapepe, a Japanese acoustic duo, which is entitled Hi-D. My alarm was a complete mess this morning, and I know later that a nasty kid has changed the setting from AM to PM. Fortunately or unfortunately, instead of my routine soundtrack, I did wake up to the sound of my youngest sister’s yell from her way in front of the bathroom. Yes, my house has only 1 bathroom which often resulting in the family’s competition of using it. This was exactly portrayed through my sister’s piercing shout to my other sister this morning. However, it didn’t stop there. As I had presumably expected, they ended up screaming out toward each other. Oh girls… Even if it happened beyond the wall, who didn’t get awake to such noisy cat-fight? I think my long-dead grand parents could have resurrected just to hush these kids out.

Touch Me

Wait… not literally. That would be awkward. I mean not really touch myself but you may want to sense what it’s like to be in my shoes. Now this one is literally. Almost every day I wear those pair of grey-faded-colored canvas shoes, which I think is pretty comfortable. The lower bases are made of rubber, covered with another rubber again, and the inner surfaces are quiet soft with fabric upon it. I wonder how people would wear socks if they have much softer innersoles than mine.. Well, basically I like the texture of my shoes: not so slippery yet smooth enough to keep my feet feel warm like they’re at home. Even so, I still believe that the down-to-earth barefooted nature is the best. I love being barefooted! Hidup cekeran!