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I am very taken by this sentence: “…his voice was handsome and broken, like a cobblestone street…” (Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, p. 126).

Flying to Bali tomorrow, before making headway for Surabaya, Bandung, and Jakarta by overland route. Cannot decide if I want to bring Stoker, Chekhov, or a piece about special ops throughout history.

I am spoiled, I know. Well, bye!

Posted on July 13th, 2007 by Antiguit

Batam is one of a few unexciting islands that make up a chain of islands collectively dubbed Riau, which belongs to the same corrupt individuals who run the rest of the Indonesian archipelago. Located south of the Malay peninsula, the people native to the island speak a derivative of the Malay language that my Bahasa Indonesia-trained ears interpret as an unholy deviation from the pure Indonesian language; of course, this is typical blind patriotism at best, because the Indonesian language is effectively the consonant-friendly byproduct after decades of having the Melayu language butchered at the hands of giddy nationalists.

Sometime in the late nineteen-hundreds, the island experienced a period of exponential economic growth. It went from being just another lush, random outlying island to a hotbed of cheap electronic manufacturing and oil refinery plants. When the big boys from Japan and the United States made clear their intents to pump money into the island to make money for themselves, local bureaucrats were more than happy to sign off on papers that permitted the obliteration of countless acres of rich jungle greenery to make way for Soviet era-style factories and office buildings. Today, there are scores of abandoned sites where trees were taken down in exchange for another factory, another office building, another housing complex; patches of hot, red soil are littered by the steely skeletons of half-finished buildings never to stand fully erect, resembling more ghost towns rather than the hopes and dreams of starry-eyed businessmen.

The wealthy nation-state of Singapore may be reached by a forty-minute ferry ride; ferry schedules run as frequently as buses, and the number of passengers to and fro each island may be measured in capacities of Boeing 737s. Unless you are into typical foreign businessmen things like golfing, illegal gambling, or making financial contributions to the local sex industry, then you’d find the island to be about as stimulating a modern art sculpture subject to personal interpretation. Still, the slim slew of expatriates whose jobs require them to relocate to Batam will find almost anything they need on the island; should they fail to acquire whatever it is they pine for, all that’s needed is a stopover in the luxe goods repository that is Singapore.

During the final throes of World War Two, when the Japanese pointed their turrets in the direction of Asia Pacific, the Brits, Dutch, and Portuguese ran for home with their tails tucked firmly between their legs; they left behind no inkling of leadership or national infrastructure for the people they forced into service. The good people of Singapore gave themselves no room for excuses and worked on establishing a sober government. Today, forty-two years into its independence, this little island has somehow muscled its way past bigger south east Asian neighbors to emerge as the obvious gem in a geographic region rife with ancient colonial backwaters.

Economists could go on and on about just how wonderful Singapore is, but greatness has its shortcomings; plenty of people complain about the infamous tight leash of censorship on mass media and the blanket over free speech. You also hear rumors about government critics and political dissenters who “disappear”—you know, classic Nixon-age CIA stories about people who know too much, and the next thing you know, they vanish with no appar

Posted on June 22nd, 2007 by Antiguit

I rode in the backseat of a slick Chevy Camaro speeding down the highways of Rochester last night, the calm roar of its supercharged engines accompanied by music blaring out of its speakers. We were going twice over the speed limit, and doing it all while listening to the vocal stylings of Enya (because like the Camaro, Only Time is such a bad-ass song).

My sister, riding shotgun, threw her head back in laughter at the ridiculous-ness of the situation; the Mexican next to me was slapping his knees in delight, and the Lebanese behind the wheel tried his damndest to make sure his eyes (and concentration) remained fixed on the road. It was one of the most bizarre moments of my life, and I don’t think I can listen to Only Time anymore without laughing out loud.

Posted on May 25th, 2007 by Antiguit

Posted on May 6th, 2007 by Antiguit

Why did Tony Bennet leave his heart behind in San Francisco? Why not leave behind innards of less importance to the maintenance of his health, such as the appendix, or one kidney? Is he implying that of all his vital organs, his heart serves him the greatest purpose? It is highly unfair to belittle other vital organs for the sake of poetry; I understand that the heart is symbolic of one’s feelings, so one’s leaving it behind is representative of strong attachment towards a certain place. Recent scientific discoveries have shown, however, that the brain—and not the heart—is responsible for the enabling of emotions.

So let us reflect on the bile produced by our pancreata, the cerebrospinal fluid that lets our brains float within our skulls, and the epethelium lining the lungs that aid these essential organs to do what they do best—and let us write pop songs about their wonders.

But movements for equal medical recognition aside, the San Francisco trip was a refreshing break from the monotony of school. We met up with J, the token Hungry Artist on our first night, and filled up the following days with a dizzying itinerary of shopping and sightseeing.

Fisherman’s Wharf, a staple to San Francisco sightseeing, gave us legitimate reason to morph into real tourists and snap pictures of anything we deem fit to be a novelty. The only thing that separated us from the stereotypical horde of trigger-happy Asian girls would be the, umm, well, nothing really. It grieves me to say that on that one day, we were the paramount example of an Asian mob with cameras, but it was fun.

We underwent great pains to acquire tickets too see the horrific slabs of brick that weigh down Alacatraz Island. Was it worth leaving the hotel at six in the morning to gamble on the chance of receiving one of the fifty early-bird tickets they set aside every day? My answer stands a firm and confident Yes. Alacatraz was not a happy place, with the ghosts of its Civil War and federal penitentiary past still pacing down the halls, and the musty stench of madness lingering behind cold steel bars. The solitude and separation from the rest of mankind drove me crazy during my four-hour stint there; spending eight to ten years would make legitimate grounds for harboring thoughts of suicide.

And now that the film has been developed, the scans uploaded, and the entry posted, there is nothing left to do but roll the metaphorical sleeves and make a mad offensive rush in the direction of the final few weeks of the semester. And after that, I wish to own all four volumes of The Cambridge History of Southeast Asia, because it would make sixteen-hour flights more bearable.

Posted on November 28th, 2006 by Antiguit