…Curtain Rises…

The shadow grew from a tiny speck in the other end to the darkness that engulfed any light there was in the alley. All the time I was standing still, dazed, oblivious, until I realized that the figure was now but a few yards away.

Eclipsing my last view of the bright streetlamp out there on the main road, the humongous dark figure now caught my sight. It was an unearthly being; its very presence signaled danger to me. Its two gargantuan legs rooted firmly in the wet asphalt of the narrow alley, and its arms – if they could be called so – drooped till under its knees. The thick right arm was covered in rough scales, its end – the presumable right hand - forming a silhouette that reminded me of a dragon’s head. The left arm appeared to have molten skin, and it hung comparatively loosely, ending abruptly, without any sign of a hand, like a snake’s tail.

But what was the most dreadful, was the inconceivable image of its head. It looked nearly a block, with a semi-transparent crown sitting above it. In what would most likely be its forehead, was a slight rectangular protrusion, and even in the mere wisps of light, I could clearly see the seven embossed letters on it.

F I C T I O N.

The figure approached steadily, and for the first time, I wondered why on Earth I walked into this dead-end at the first place. My brain commanded the obvious message to my body. Run away. But my legs refused to comply; instead, they buckled, and I slumped on the damp floor. The heavy legs dragged the thing nearer and nearer, and finally stopped at barely two feet before me.

I was sweating profusely, but I managed to cry out, “Wh-What the hell do you want with me!?”

My crackling, stammering voice, although meant to be as loud as possible to scare the creature away, seemed only to give in how afraid I was. I nearly fainted when the figure bent down, its face now hardly inches in front of mine.

“Behold,” the thing hissed, its raspy voice, although surprisingly faint and inaudible for something of that size, was tingling with a ghastly air. “You’re about to witness… the most pointless story to exist, without any meaning, without any depth whatsoever.“

My head sank lower in my shoulders. I was probably going to die the most pointless death, without any meaning, without any depth whatsoever. Seeing me paralyzed, the monster let out a deathly laugh.

I was immediately on my knees. “Mercy!” I said. “Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?”

“Man of the worldly mind!” replied the monster, “don’t you know?” It pointed with the snake-tail on the seven letters on its forehead, now glowing with a bluish hue. “Doesn’t it dawn on you why I have come to you?“

Because all this crap is obviously imaginary? “I don’t. I mustn’t. Why have you come to me?”

“I am what you created. What you promised. What you wished. Yet I am what you neglected. What you delayed. What you failed. Now tell me!” the word on its head now radiating with a blinding light, “do you still acknowledge me!? Do you still want me!?“

My mind raced through what I faintly recognized… the little thing I remembered to have christened six months ago, yet I knew to not have provided for. Suddenly, I had a frightful revelation of what this thing in front of me was.

“Yes! Yes, I do!” I gasped in desperation. “I have never meant to abandon you! Nor have I…”

“Then receive me!” So saying, it extended its snakelike left arm to me, and hung its right arm behind its body, both limbs forming a straight line. The tip of its left arm wrapped itself around my throat. All of a sudden, I felt that I was being swallowed by the creature, and at the same time, I sensed that I was also swallowing it into me. Amidst the chaos, in the light of the letters on my creation’s forehead, I saw something before I lost consciousness.

The head of the Dragon.

—

I woke up to my PC monitor screen. My mind was, after all the chaos, surprisingly lucid and clear. After a brief pause, a moment to catch my breath, I lifted my hand and started to type… slowly, painstakingly, the seven letters.

F I C T I O N.

Moral lesson: None. As the thing said, this is the most pointless story to exist, without any meaning, without any depth whatsoever.

REAL moral lesson: When you have promised a section in a blog and don’t know how to fill it, feel free to post useless junk inside as the first post, just for the sake of fulfilling said promise.

P.S.: Any reader who managed to decipher all the metaphors in the story above, kudos to you.

Ambigrams

After weeks of reading in fits and starts, last Monday I finally was able to put my birthday present down. The book, “The Lost Symbol” by Dan Brown, was given by an old friend who now studies at Singapore. I must say that she didn’t make a wrong choice of gift.

My profound interest in codes and mysteries was so well satisfied by the page-turner that I decided to research about the author’s other works. Among them was one whose wide-screen adaptation I have watched in the past – “Angels and Demons”. Just the image of the book cover already piqued my interest. The words Angels and Demons were written in such a way that, if rotated 180 degrees, it would spell out the same word.

It was an ambigram, an image that can be rotated to form another. As quoted from Wikipedia, “An ambigram is a typographical design or artform that may be read as one or more words not only in its form as presented, but also from another viewpoint, direction, or orientation. The words readable in the other viewpoint, direction or orientation may be the same or different from the original words.”

The ambigrams featured in “Angels and Demons” were designed by John Langdon, the namesake of the novel’s protagonist. Remembering his beautiful designs of the words “Illuminati”, “Earth”, “Fire”, etc., I tried to imitate the practice myself… and create an ambigram of my own name.

It was surprisingly… not-so-hard. In less than fifteen minutes, I made an ambigram that read the same words when rotated half a circle. Below are two images of said ambigram that I took with my cell-phone camera:

As you can see, it was not yet polished to look “art-like”, but that was the prototype of my name in ambigram, made during my leisure time at work. Besides my name, I also made some others of my colleagues’ and friends’ name, the hardest one that day being “Charlie”.

I have yet to explore ambigrams that spell out a new word, or even ambigram pictures, but I have been able to successfully make several that read the same. It took time to think, but it was far from difficult.

The first thing you may notice is that for ambigrams, you write the first and the last letter together, because you need to picture the inverted image of a letter forming another. In certain cases, it may seem impossible to make a letter in the front to match the one in the back when rotated. There are ways to get around the problem, though, such as in mine above, where, “S” being nigh impossible to be made “N”, I stuck the “S” and “t” together to form a funky looking “n”.

My friend argued that making an ambigram out of a text with odd total characters is easier due to a letter that doesn’t need extra work standing in the middle. But I beg to differ. It is indubitably easy if the middle character is symmetrical, but such letters are but few in the Roman alphabet. While “I” and “H” will be a cinch, letters like “P” and “C” will prove a jerk to be inverted. Either way, we can make odd total characters into even, and vice versa, by combining two characters into one. The number of characters has no bearing here; just do it the easiest way.

Sometimes, adding absolutely irrelevant decorations to your letter when you’re desperate might help in creating an invertible one, such as shown in the second “e” above. By extending some parts of the letter, I managed to turn it into a hairy “E” rotated. Lame, I know, but it just worked, apart from the inconsistent art in all three “e”s in the name. Legible still.

Ambigrams can be made easily with a computer as well. Using programs like Photoshop or CorelDraw, you would normally only need to design one halfway and copy-paste it before finally rotating and placing the two halves side by side. Not for technological ignoramuses though… You’re going to need a whole lot of skill and patience to adjust the nodes to the shape you want.

Making ambigrams is fun; in my opinion, the result is much more rewarding than drawing pictures. It involves creativity and constant thinking… and the resulting image will always be unique depending on the artist. So why don’t you grab a pencil and a piece of paper now and start making one?

(Or just grab an ambigram generator out there in the web, if you’re not interested in the brainracking and want only the artwork.)

The Bridge – Part Two

The first half of my shift as a teacher ended exactly at noon, when one’s stomach was growling the loudest. Unfortunately, that had applied to everyone for the ages.

The Japanese Embassy had had, for God-knew-how-long, a punctual lunch break that lasted for one-and-a-half hour, starting from exactly 12 PM. I had no other choice but to eat my own share of lunch as well. At least that would keep me occupied, if for but fifteen minutes.

Irregular heartbeats should be detrimental to health, or so I was inclined to believe. Which was why every end of semester, every final round of a competition, I could feel my life being chipped away by the cold chisels of “uncertainty”. When I decided I couldn’t take it anymore, I forced myself to take a nap (“forced” is the preferred diction here, hypocrisy intended).

As every siesta is at every workplace, you always end up oversleeping. I opened my eyes to my Casio. Exactly 14:00. I jolted up and grabbed my cell phone, an obvious indication that I didn’t plan to “wait until tomorrow” like what I was told this morning. Defiant? No, expectant!

This time, I silently prayed while the waiting tone played. If the answer wasn’t out by then, the next 24-hours was going to be hell. After what seemed an eternity, a voice answered.

After being put on hold several times, I reached the woman who handled the education department, again. This time, the response to my inquiry was a little different.

“What program did you apply for?” she asked. My heartbeat accelerated by a factor of 1.5. Could it be!?

“Undergraduate, ma’am,” I answered almost all too quickly.

“And your name is…?” Dare I hope…?

“Stevensen.” Unmistakably.

“Stevensen, from Medan?” I replied with an affirmative.

“Field of study: social sciences?” Another affirmative. That’s it, I thought, it’s either the C-word or the S-word now…

“Congratulations, then!” was the lady’s reply. I was not sure how my brain cells processed this piece of information, but those words resonated with an immediate gasp from me.

Several milliseconds later, the news soaked in. I already foresaw a Facebook status and its humongous amounts of “like”s.

The conversation with the lady at the Embassy took a whole other tone afterward. It was one of a pompous businesslike discussion, where a conceited happy person asked prospectively of his future. Several instructions followed, but he probably had his heads in the clouds; he couldn’t care less for other things, at least not for the rest of the day.

—

A retrospect I had as the news spread from me to my father, and from him to the rest, brought me to the moment when I clasped my UAN certificate and trotted into the Japanese Consulate on the fifth floor of Wisma BII, six months ago. The day saw me torn between choosing “Undergraduate” for the majors I wanted regardless of my barely eligible marks, or opting for “Special Training College” just so that my academic results looked better being a good deal above the minimum requirement of average scores, even if it meant sacrificing my interests.

The eventual choice of the former spited me for months. When I had submitted the application form I feared failing the document selection; when I had passed the initial screening I feared failing the written test; when I had triumphed over the exam I feared failing the interview. And when I had succeeded the interview I feared failing the final selection in Japan. I didn’t feel at all sanguine about my fate, Undergraduate program being my choice and all. Throughout the half-year wait, I had been constantly haunted by my subconscious, always telling me that I had fought a battle unlikely won.

Now those days were long past. Once a distant dream, Japan was now a reality, three months away. I had never gone abroad before in my 19 years of life; who would have imagined that my first destination would be that country I longed for even since I was a child? And not a one-week sojourn, but a five-year residence.

I could already see the cherry blossoms; I could already feel the snow.

My afternoon shift started not long after the phone call. I led my student upstairs with a huge grin on my face. Happy teaching, Steve. It won’t be long now.

The bridge has been laid down for me. Now all I have to do is tread carefully to the other end.

The Bridge – Part One

Wednesday morning didn’t start until eight o’clock.

Before said time, I had been drifting in and out of contemporaneous lucidity and maddening anticipation. I could hardly blame the cause, for it was why that day promised hope as opposed to aimless wandering in the dark to me.

The cause? A simple visit to a simple forum. Within these long months, I had voraciously dug for the information I had been waiting for, and Tuesday afternoon I found the answer – excruciatingly unsettling. Somebody from somewhere had obtained the Monbukagakusho undergraduate scholarship.

To be frank, that was probably the first time I got so excited for good news that wasn’t directed to me. Had it not been past business time for the Japanese Consulate in Medan, I would surely have called to inquire about my fate – my demanded share of good news.

Eight o’clock is the “Open” hour for the Japanese Consulate. As I got on the pedicab that day, I took out my cell phone and dialed the number. Today’s going to be momentous.

After a very brief waiting tone (professional!) a man answered my call. I blitzed through the perfunctory formalities and I landed the ultimate question of personal interest: “Can I make a query about the Japanese scholarship?”. Accurate, brief, concise. And it had the “What about me!?” feeling in it.

The man replied with nearly the same terseness. The gist was: if you haven’t been called yet, chances are you failed.

I attempted to inquire about when they got the information from Japan, but it appeared that the list wasn’t with him. He said probably only one person had passed the undergraduate selection.

I hung up in despondency. I had feared that something was wrong when others seemed to have gotten the news yet I wasn’t called for anything.

In the past few months, I had worried for nearly half a year about my application status with all the apparent fiascoes. I wasn’t sure if I had made the preferred answer when, during the interview, I said I would return to Indonesia after finishing undergraduate, because frankly, I recently grew to like the idea of continuing my studies as a postgraduate (like everybody most likely would), and I wasn’t exactly positive that the Japanese would like a passive student who’d be content with being an undergraduate either.

Besides, a discomforting state of things was presented when it turned out that they required my grades for all the six semesters in senior high. One semester, namely the fifth, saw me sitting at the second bottom of my class among the turbulent competition of competent students. It had been a source of pride when in the last semester I shot up to the eighteenth with perseverance. But it was a testament for an indelible dark history in my life. It was a reference to how incompetent I could ever become. It was possibly the greatest bane in getting a scholarship.

I wouldn’t be surprised if any passers-by commented that a certain pedicab exuded a dark aura. Inside it must have been a desperate scholarship applicant most likely rejected.

But wait! I had yet to get a confirmation. The list of names wasn’t there to be revealed. The “only one got the scholarship” didn’t exclude me as the possible lucky guy. And my cell phone reception sucked inside my workplace, the place in which I’d be most active during the Japanese Consulate’s working hours. Moreover, our country would never surprise its citizens with its lagging behind, like, in notifying the recipients of a certain scholarship…

I refuse to believe!

Before I started my daily chore of tutoring, I decided to contact the Japanese Consulate once more. I needed to know that I indeed failed for me to be at rest. At least I could stop dreaming.

Surprisingly, I learned that the list turned out to not be in their hands at all. In other words, the one person’s passing I heard half-an-hour ago was most likely speculation.

I wasn’t satisfied. I hadn’t made anything clear. The fact still remained that somebody from Europe got the notification yesterday, and I didn’t.

I dialed the number of the next grandeur in the list: the Japanese Embassy in Jakarta. Surely, if the list hadn’t made it to Medan, it had at least to the center in our capital city.

It seemed like an eternity for me to reach the Education Department; my heart was restlessly pounding. When the call was answered, I managed to stammer the greetings out of my mouth before launching the big question. The answer was comparatively small; she told me to try tomorrow or, with the utmost optimism, this afternoon. No list was ever present there – not then.

I thanked the female voice at the other end of the phone and hung up. At least, I thought as I trod upstairs to my class, I have one more day of wishful thinking.

*to be continued*

Escorting – Part Two

Inside the hall where the concert was to take place, staff members could be seen adjusting the props, sound system and all. Meanwhile, all of the escorts gathered outside to be briefed. A middle-aged gentlemen with an air of dignity about him appeared. I assumed right away that he was our employer.

He cordially greeted us and said a few words of gratitude. Then he looked around and exclaimed, “My! Weren’t you informed to wear black – the T-shirt, trousers, shoes?”

We were, indeed. At least, I was – the message came just as I boarded the public transport leaving home. But at that time, I hardly gave it a second thought. I was under the impression that I had one, and only one pair of shoes: the new brown pair I was wearing now. Black shoes for school have been discarded, I mumbled to myself. No black shoes to wear, no black shoes to wear.

It would be one whole month before I realized that I DID have black shoes – a certain pair of Converse which was treated more like a sacred heirloom than a footwear. By then, this event was already aboard a trip to Oblivion.

“This won’t do. Do you know why you were asked to wear black?” the gentleman said. Then he asked Lydia – another victim of black apparel shortage, for she wore dark blue jeans – to observe the appearances of the rest. I did the same in my place. He proceeded to explain about the importance of first impression, that a group of escorts clad in black would give out an organized image that randomly dressed ones wouldn’t. I glanced at the steady row of all-black men to my right, and suddenly my brown shoes looked pink.

Not that it could be helped. At least I hoped that I could redeem myself if I did the job seriously.

And so our briefing began. The first thing we were told was that the tables were numbered (but of course). We were to escort guests to tables with the number written on their invitation letter. Next, that both of the two doors of the hall will be used. We were to split in two and receive guests that came to our respective doors. Third, about the ways to greet the honorable guests. “Selamat malam!(Good evening!) Bisa saya lihat undangan Anda?(Can I see your letter of invitation, please?) Baik, silakan ikuti saya ke meja Anda.(Alright, please let me guide you to your table.)”

Speaking about guiding to one’s table, we were advised to memorize the position of the tables there. Of course, there were maps of the room, but we wouldn’t want ourselves staring at them, looking as lost as the guests (after all, that was why there were escorts, wasn’t it?). And thus, as we were having our meals, we “ate” the map as well.

—

The doors were opened, and we assumed our posts. I was assigned the left door, with Nancy, Lydia, Michael, and some others. Guests started showing up, and pretty soon, it was obvious that for some unknown reason, the left door was the entrance of choice. Escorts on the left went in and out, while AU, Win, and the others on the right door looked pretty lax.

My first guests were two young ladies. I bid them good evening in polite Indonesian, as instructed. Then, having been shown the number of their seats, I told them to follow me, as instructed. Upon reaching the table, I made the “here it is” gesture, as instructed. The girls looked amused and said “Kam-sia.(Thank you.)” to me. It was full-fledged Hokkian.

I nodded with a sheepish grin and fled. Not as instructed.

If there was anything that the briefing that day didn’t cover, it was how to avoid the embarrassment of speaking Indonesian instead of Hokkian when the opponent was clearly of Chinese descendant. And immediately, a follow-up question emerged, one that sometimes still haunt me to this date.

How the hell do we say “Selamat malam” in Hokkian!?

Guests were arriving ceaselessly. At one point, when the massive hall was but half filled, I sneaked to the right door and relaxed a little, for the people coming through that side were considerably fewer. Then, after some fifteen minutes, I kinda missed the job and strode back to the left door. I ought to have been fickle.

Approaching eight o’clock, the hall was already mostly filled. No guests had been coming for a while, and the escorts standing outside were starting to get restless out of boredom. I made myself scarce by going to the toilet, and then roaming the rest of the hotel with some of my friends.

The furnished corridors looked worlds apart from the hall we just left. Without all the hubbub of the event, we took our time admiring the elegant chandeliers and the twisting staircase. The piano started playing downstairs, and it was five-star hotel Mariott once more.

The concert had already started when we went back to the hall. I saw Mr. Ebiet there on the stage singing, and while hours ago I had no knowledge of the name, I immediately recalled the serene voice and songs that were part of my childhood memories. I had heard them before, somewhere, and Mr. Ebiet’s singing must have refreshed the nostalgic melodies in my mind, just as I was sure it had in the audiences’ hearts.

Nancy must have noticed my admiration of the voice, for she remarked, “So even time doesn’t swallow great voices, huh?” Indeed it didn’t. Thirty years since his debut and still I was now standing by the hall’s doorway like a fanboy.

The events that day left little to be desired. After all the hard work, we escorts had our dinner at KFC Jalan Listrik, eating to our hearts’ content. And as I went home that day, in high spirits, I found myself humming some notes from the artist’s song.

Originally written on October 1, 2009

Escorting – Part One

An escort. That was pretty much all the job detail I was given that day via SMS, by my old friend Nancy again, no less. Having been told that the offer was provided by the same people that assigned me as a liaison officer last time, I fully know that the job had a “Voluntary, No Pay” label on it. I couldn’t care less. The temptation of free experience amidst the uneventful holidays was too much to wag a finger at.

Besides, the event this time was a concert; one of some Ebiet G. Ade. While my ignorant self knew nothing of this person – in fact, I could hardly name twenty singers out of the thousands there are/were – I sensed that this would be no ordinary singer, no rising rock star or the likes. The concert itself was to take place at a five-star hotel. And I had been offered the chance to see all these, just by playing my role as a modest escort. It almost sounded too good that refusing would be the ungrateful act of the year.

Which was why I found myself crossing the road against the relentless traffic that Wednesday afternoon, to reach J.W. Mariott. A phone call I initiated as soon as I was within 50 meters of the hotel earned me the instructions to head for the second floor. Michael Su, an acquaintance from the previous event, would be waiting there.

I entered the building. The first thing that struck me was that, with so many people walking in and out, employees and staffs having seemingly serious business talks, and with the simple, stark atmosphere of the big room, the place felt more like an elite office than a grand hotel. I walked straight to the elevator, and soon entered together with a bunch of important-looking people.

And my eyes failed to spot a number “two”. The buttons in the lift went directly from G to 3. No, not a sign of the second floor. Was this some sort of deliberate prank to make me search for a nonexistent level in the building? Determined to save face, I punched the button with the closest number with a pompous oomph.

The elevator door opened to the third floor and I knew immediately that something was wrong. The long, empty, drab corridor couldn’t have been the meeting place. The floor was covered in gray carpet, as far as memory serves, and the passage was dimly lighted, if any. Now I did wonder if that third floor had really been the “second”. With hesitation, I stepped out, with everybody else in the lift knowing as well as I did that I had no idea what I was doing.

“Hey, there, where you goin’?” a man, who looked like a guard in the elevator, eyed me suspiciously. Obviously at this point, I looked like nothing far from a high brat, armed with deadly fireworks somewhere in his trousers and an ominous intention of blowing up another Mariott. I was already at the right place.

“Um, …se-second floor?” I stammered, trying to put up the most innocent masks I had, for I was indeed innocent.

“You’re lookin’ for the hotel, kid. Take the lift down again.” With that, the door shut and the elevator went up.

And I thought I was getting mutilated for sure.

—

It turned out that the office-esque building wasn’t my destination at all. Written on the glass doors and walls were the words “B&R Building”. Wait, R&B? B&B? Whatever, my bad for not paying enough attention. I literally ran out covering my face in humiliation, after all. I turned right from the corner and soon reached another entrance, which I was perfectly sure belonged to the “hotel”. There, two officers bade me to walk through the fancy-looking gate, which apparently was determined to declare my cell-phone as some kind of explosive.

I walked in the automatic door. This time, with the thick carpet, the brightly lit walls, and the huge pot of tuberose in the middle of the room, I identified the decorated hall I just entered as that of a five-star hotel. Grand, indeed. It almost felt like a palace. I took a deep breath of the cool air before I finally started walking towards the elevator.

I didn’t know if the previous elevator was different, since I was so flustered to even look that time, but this one I just stepped in had some cool features I had never seen before in any lift I had previously “graced” with my presence. Braille codes. An announcement coming from the speakers. Hmm, friendly for the disabled. How thoughtful. They even had enough sense to make “2″ an available choice this time.

The door opened to the second floor. Walking through the long hallway, I arrived among a bunch of Men in Black. Michael, the IT&B student, was there to meet me.

Yes, black. The dress code for the job. A message following the job offer (also from Nancy, duh) instructed me to wear black trousers and black shoes. The black t-shirt for the job would be supplied by our employers. Unfortunately, the black footwear that accompanied me for years in high school was permanently retired a few days earlier, and I only had a pair of brown new ones. So I was 95% Man in Black, with “traces of brown may be found, not a defect”.

I was immediately handed the working t-shirt. On closer inspection when I was changing in the restroom, I noticed that the design of the apparel practically screamed: “The man in this attire is a committee member!” The words “30 Tahun Jejak Karya Ebiet G. Ade” was written on it, hinting the nature of the event (A singer from the 70s making a comeback? Yes, please!). Then, even bigger than the letters was the picture of a face, one that my genius immediately identified as that of Mr. Ebiet himself.

I rejoined the group in my new clothes, and was immediately introduced to Mr. Hendrick Chandra and Mr. Leonard Jackson, also from IT&B. Win was already there, making acquaintances before I did, apparently. Having exchanged pleasantries, I went downstairs to meet Nancy, who called me as soon as she arrived at the gate. Shortly after, Lydia, also a junior that volunteered to be an escort, showed up as well. Now that they had arrived, the job of the day was ready to commence. Once again I punched button number two, and we were soon upstairs, waiting to be briefed for our tasks.

*to be continued*

Originally written on August 19, 2009

Second Project – The Tale of A 180 Minute Escort

Following the freshly discovered lure of expatiating upon one’s special story amongst the prosaic rest of the chapters, another event has unfolded since last time when I served as a voluntary LO. Needless to say, I once more answered the summons my conscious delivered: to write about my experience during the occasion.

The event placed me as an escort for guests of a comeback concert by a singer who gained his fame in the 70s. With a familiar cast but a new setting, the once again voluntary job was my last before I started my full time work last November.

What differentiates this episode with The Chronicles of A Certain Liaison Officer is the duration of the event; the latter lasted a whole week, while the one at hand was for but a few hours. Nevertheless, the colorful situations which I found myself in were worth noting; in fact, the short hours bore two posts by itself.

I believe that the two-page narrative, being the last series I posted in my Facebook notes about any unusual activity I took part in, deserves its spot in my blog as well. Hence, after a long delay, I decided to import them (with minor edits, as always) as my first posts in the new year.

初めまして

いよいよ２００９年の１２月も終わるね。今年の師走も先年のと同じ、楽しかった一ヶ月だったが、去年と違うこともあった。

連続８年の日本語能力試験を受けていた僕は、去年１級を合格して今度受けないことにした。何故なら、挑戦する勇気がなかったからだな。２９９点で辛うじて受かることができた物を準備不足のまま再び受けたら、一度合格した試験を逆に失敗する恥辱になるしかない。

“でも、Stevenさんは日本語が上手ですから、きっと受けても大丈夫ですよね？”

へぇ、そう言った人もいるね。本当に“上手”だったらいいけど、１級の合格認定書があったとしても１級ほどの日本語実力が身に持っているわけではないんだよ。確かに、合格条件の２８０点を満たすことができたけど、その１９点はせいぜい運が良くて得られたポイントに過ぎない。実際の能力は、その点数に添えない恥ずかしいものだ。

あっ、自己紹介。恥（はじ）めまして…　陳永盛でございます。今初めて日本語で日誌を書いているところですから、あちこち文法や表現の使い方の間違いがあるかも知れませんが、１９歳の誕生日に際して少し日本語能力を磨いてもいいと思いますから、よろしくお願いします。

堅苦しい挨拶は抜きにしよう…

今度僕の一人の後輩を紹介してあげよう。１歳年下で、今高校三年生の男だ。彼は興味深い人だ。数学の天才だし、僕のように小さな頃から日本語を勉強していた。いつ、どこに出会ったか、もう覚えてないけど、知り合いとして学校で（たまに）会ったらいつも日本語で会話をする相手だった。そうして注目になる二人が、この変な友情で結ばれていた。

彼が数学の天才って、言ったんだろう？この間文部科学省の奨学金を申し込んでその試験に準備する時、ほとんどゼロの程度から(>.<)数学を教えてくれたおかげで試験の７問から５つを見事に出来た。こんな人に巡り会って、本当に有り難い（ラッキー）だったな。

今年の１級の日本語能力試験、僕が逃げちゃって不参加して彼が代わりに出席した。でも、彼に恩返しするのはやまやまだったが、結局役に立たなかった。文法を教えたくてももう大分忘れたり、知っている語彙も足りなかったり、この“さすがに”１級を受かった自分の無力で何の助けもなれなくて悔しかった…

それにしても、彼の能力に確信がある。試験の日、僕はこのメッセージを彼のFacebookのWallに残した：

報告！試験はどうだった？
（聞くまでもないよね…　うまくいったんでしょう？）

ほとんど一週間後、彼はこう返事した：

遅刻報告(12月10日)：最近忙しくて、FB開けなかった。ハハハ
まあ、先日ね文字・語彙、読解・文法は結構良かったけどさ、聴解はちょっとね…
ところで、誕生日お目出当…来年、第一志望大学に入れますように。

以外にタイミングが良かったね。試験をうまくやった上に、僕のたった一つの仮名で書いてある誕生日挨拶を送ってくれた。それを読んで、僕はほっとしたが、自分の成長が止まってる様子もいきなり明らかになった。また一年が過ぎた…また年を取った…このまま日本語を勉強せずに衰えて行くのか？

有り得ない話だね！

その決意があって、この日本語の日誌を書いて、自分の能力を磨き直すことにした。初めてだから難しい事だったが、諦めないでよりいいポストを書いていく。

陳永盛、１９、新しい一年に向かい、いざ参る！

December Thirteen

“So why don’t we treat Steve, since he’s having birthday and all…?”

Andrew, you are a genius!

Paulina agreed – hopefully not acquiesced – and it was official. Tonight, after eons, the trio of PAS are going out for a dinner again. I was glad they took the initiative, for my wallet had no more money than enough to pay for my transportation home, which naturally made hang-outs out of the question. It was ironic how at the very previous night, it still had eight Rp50,000 notes inside.

We left Rahayu at about 1.30 at noon. According to the plan, we were going to D’Loft at Thamrin Plaza this evening. For the meanwhile, I were to spend the rest of the afternoon at Andrew’s, while Paulina was going to tend to her preparations for a coming competition at a senior’s house.

The three of us inside a pedicab – of all people, I was with them once more. The team PAS, its name taken from the initials of each of our names, holds a great meaning to me. It was the debate team I debuted in (bar the very first team I had when I was in Junior High, in which I wasn’t even debating) for the long adventure as a debater during my Senior High years. We started as representatives of our school for the ISDC provincial selection two years ago, and starting since, we won competitions, one by one. But it was not all in the victory; during those two years, what we gained above all…

…is a friendship that would be cherished for the rest of our lives.

Which is why I felt at home with them. Which is why I didn’t mind their paying for my dinner (lol, what?). Which is why even if they hadn’t offered their hand, I would still have comfortably asked for a loan without receiving a cold glare.

While sitting in the front seat of the pedicab, I relived the past night. After having our fill with the chocolate cake I was presented, the five of us – there were two other old friends in the party, who left before we did – got through the night with thriller movies. Two played in the DVD player before dawn, one which I entirely slept through. The third followed after we woke up and finished breakfast, during half of which I slept again. Having a marathon of  fun amidst the hectic days that had never stopped since I started working (moreover, with long-time friends) seemed like a dream I wouldn’t wake up from.

—

“Hallooo~ouw~”

“Halloo#%–OouW…”

Andrew burst into fits of laughter at my attempt to imitate him. It was an old routine, really. He, for some reason, had a fetish toward vocal trainings, and when we got nothing to do, he would start chanting fragments of songs God-knows-where-they-came-from, then challenging his friends to mimic the lyric he sang with an absurd pitch. Needless to say, I wasn’t any good in singing, so I just played along for fun…

…I got hooked… and I started meeting the vocal challenges one after another. By the time Paulina returned from her training and called from downstairs to set off for Thamrin Plaza, my throat was already a tad sore.

—

The usually bleak atmosphere of D’Loft took on a whole other face as Christmas carols played through the loudspeaker on the walls of the food court. It was heartwarming to dine under the ebony roofs, beside the huge glass window giving an outlook to the city under the evening sky.

The curry rice I ordered really met my appetite. Because the three of us skipped lunch, we chowed down on our foods heartily. Comprehensive gossip, chats, laughter, a capella Christmas songs, all one would ask from a hang-out session, we had during our dinner. When the meal turned out to be not enough, we even proceeded to share a plate of Pempek Kapal Selam.

Had I been paying for myself, I wouldn’t have hesitated to order and eat more. But as things stood (read: as I was about half-a-million rupiahs poorer), I was perfectly glad that they understood my broke status and would lend me a hand. Two days after my birthday, and it felt as if the day repeated itself with old companions.

Yes, perfectly glad.

The PAS party continued in Stingers, where we played arcade games and sang inside the Karaoke box. While I exerted effort in reconstructing the notes I successfully reached during the afternoon squeaking session, Andrew could ceaselessly sing on even long after the background music stopped (boy, was that guy ever tired yelling). Paulina watched with strenuous restraint, probably disappointed that dangdut songs didn’t make it to the list.

—

About two weeks have passed since then. Work recommenced, life once again assumed its normal course. Yet the joy of reunion and the preciousness of friendship lingered. Writing this post to pass my Christmas holiday reminded me of what’s important; it has been most delightful to me. And so I resume my life, looking forward to seeing my friends again.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

初次写作

终于鼓起勇气来用中文写日志… YES!

本来打算上个月就开始写中文的文章了，而且还想用我在大学比赛得了三个三等奖那件事来做第一次的题目显摆显摆。但后来又想，这么做或许乐白（le bai; 想必印尼的读者肯定知道这词组是什么意思）了一点儿，所以最后我还是决定把初次写作留到我生日的时候。

没想到，同时写英语和汉语原来是这么难的一回事儿。

我汉语没有英语的一半儿好，所以写一篇中文的文章所需的时间大概是写英文文章的两倍。但我不能怕难而退。有一位老师曾经跟我说，“常常练习写作，语言能力一定提高得很快！” 就因为知道自己的水平不够，更需要挑战自己，免得自己的能力无法进步。

说到汉语，我现在在“亚洲国际友好学院”，一所在棉兰的语言大学学习。还想到四个月前我坚持不想来到这儿学，因为自己别有打算。我还以为用等日本文部省奖学金消息的那半年的时间从新学中文会很无聊，时间短得学不到东西。现在我反而能每天坐在教室里听课，吸收新知识而感到幸福。

但最开心的就是能与亲切的朋友们一起度过这个学期。

人生变幻无常。三年前刚开始念高中的时候，离开了初中时多年的朋友进入新的一班，新的社交，过了一段有甜有苦的校园生活。眨眼间，七个月前高中毕业后就和同学们再次分开了。以为要过了很长的时间才能再找到可以让我感觉自在的伙伴，现在又有了新的同学，每晚在教室里和他们一起谈话说笑，整天乐呵呵的。

没有朋友，世界果然不精彩。

我喜欢我们班的两个最大理由就是可以有与各种不一样背景，不一样年龄的人打交道的机会，和在短短的四个月里养成了的团结精神。虽然个个都刚相识，但某一个人有开心的事时，大家都同享，诚心诚意地为他高兴。而在我十九岁生日的那一天，我体会到了这个友谊的伟大。

就像平常一样，因为白天工作， 十二月十一日那天我又迟到了。因为一位印尼语教授莫名其妙地对刻苦赚钱的人发脾气，害我们–迟到的不是我一个–不能进教室，不能参加考试。跟他解释了几句，说没有人会故意要迟到的，别把每个来迟的人都当成不想学习的人看–要是真不爱学，早就不来上课了–，他终于答应一月六号给我们补考的机会（还好！）。差一点破坏了我的生日呀您…！

哎，把不开心的事情先忘掉。进了第二堂课，我又是平常的“陈永盛”了，正常听课，正常作弄同学。大概被我打扰烦了，坐在前面的姚永丰说他很困，问我要不要一起去上厕所。我正好想去，就同意了。但当他小便得非常久的时候，我忽然明白了。

“有阴谋”。

在教室里坐在左边的胡培扬也进了洗手间，放了一个超级长久尿水。虽然预料到了，我还是很好奇，同学们究竟准备了什么，为什么要派两位来耽误时间。他们–终于–洗好手后，我们一起走到教室。刚要进门的那一刻，室内的灯光消失，看到了照在墙上的烛光。开开门–

“祝你生日快乐！”

一位同学在门旁站着，手里拿着一个放了“19”形状的蜡烛的巧克力蛋糕。其他的人唱完生日歌，把我的超丑照片（什么时候变出来的？）贴在我的衣服上。陈爱莉同学之后还拿给我一份礼物，是一本日语汉字词典。虽然这几个月里看到了无数的过生日的同学被整，但是以自己为中心时，感觉果然不一样。一边因为预料到了而没感到惊奇，一边又因为同学们的关心而感动，我只站着，呆呆地笑。

剩下的时间，同学们帮我把涂上了奶油的脸永恒地保存了下来。吃一吃蛋糕，照一照相片，何海洋老师的课就这样过去了。那一天晚上，我真是恋恋不舍，害了在楼下停车场里的校车等了好久。

记得回到家时停电了–真扫兴–，可是我还是脸上挂着笑容，回想自己来到这儿遇到能开心地跟我一起过生日的朋友，真幸运。我父亲常常说我“人缘好”，大概是这个意思…

现在学了差不多一个学期了，能写的汉语就这么一点儿，但我还是会坚持写下去，因为我知道，我有了能和我一起分享这些中文日志的同学。所以这个初次写作就写到这儿，作为对朋友们的感谢之意，也作为我用汉语写作的以后的开幕。