Displaced & Sublimed.

Psychoanalysis, continental philosophy, music, and expressionistic art.

[larasati-utomo]

The Misconception of You

Your voice, in the dark, Your will, on the stone

Martyrs, all martyrs,

Never once have the luxury to reveal

The upheaval, The heal, The Real

The tear, The fear, The Clear

The apparent, The apparition

The obvious concealing of The Other you have known as “I”,

The “I” who left with You

The “I” we have known as You

The “I” who cares not of who You are and what You have learned

Other than accepting the love that grows from a dead ground called fate.

Diphylleia grayi (Aug 2016) - The invisible but never disappeared; The loved but never known. Now at last you rest. 

[larasati-utomo]

Rainy Afternoon with HYUKOH

It was one of the chilliest days in November when we waited for the South Korean quartet. The rain reluctantly wetted Kemang road; creating a lazy rhythm to our ears as we look out from inside JUNI Records’ homey headquarter. It was a perfect timing for middle-class, young urban to think about coffee—I did too. And funnily enough, HYUKOH was thinking about the same thing too.

15 minutes before they arrived, they came up the idea of coffee, requesting five cups of Americano to indulge here. I was just about to volunteer and get them coffee from the nearest Warkop - perhaps to get some Indomie Ayam Bawang as well. Ain’t nobody would miss the chance to witness them caressing one of the best foods in our only known universe.

The four of them seemed to be really quiet in the first impression. They even entered the room with no slightest sound. If it wasn’t Oh Hyuk who rushed to ask where the toilet was, they could’ve won Santa Claus of the Year award for their sneaking prowess.

Dressed in their consistent wardrobe—coats and trousers 4 size bigger than their actual figure—they greeted us in formal way and sat on the seats prepared for them about 6-feet opposite to us. I sat exactly in front of them, right in the middle. Wasn’t a perfect spot either, because I look better with my face slightly facing the left side than facing the front.

So here they are: Im Dong Gun, Lee In Woo, Oh Hyuk, and Lim Hyun Jae—from left to right. We were given the chance to ask one question each, which we already rehearsed to each other. It was quite useless, though, since each of us already prepared at least a dozen questions—enough of a stock in case our intended question had already been asked.

Here’s the transcript of the ludicrous talk with the band earlier before the concert took place (DG=Dong Gun, IW=In Woo, OH=Oh Hyuk, HJ=Hyun Jae):

What can we expect from the concert at The Establishment tomorrow?

OH: We will certainly be playing all songs from (our latest album) 23. As for the others, let’s just see what we prepared for you.

We’ve known that you paid close attention to fashion; mostly for Oh Hyuk who has posed for certain magazines like Vogue, DAZED, and worked with brands like Nike. What is the fashion statement and where do you get the inspiration from?

OH: Each of us actually has different fashion taste, so it’s hard to exactly explain our fashion statement. As for our latest album, we talked to our team (including the stylist) and have decided to go on oversized outfits that just seem to fit the overall theme.

You guys have different musical background. How do you stay on the same page when it comes to music-making process?

OH: True, we have very diverse music taste, as well as influences. Our influences change over time, but there are few who stay as our main influence (in other interview, he said the major influences include Whitest Boy Alive and The Beatles, but I didn’t scrutinize every word from Oh Hyuk during our interview). I think that difference does not separate us from one music element from another—instead it gives us a chance to make our music sounds even more diverse.

We cannot ignore that you have reached mainstream music scene lately. How does that impact your music?

OH: First of all, I’m pretty glad to enter the mainstream market because it makes a lot of money *laughed awkwardly*. However, yes, sometimes I’m anxious if someday it (the mainstream market) may alter our musical identity. But so far we are still enjoying it.

Since it’s raining outside, what song from your own discography you would recommend to listen to on rainy days?

OH: Paul.

HJ: Paul.

IW: *one-minute pause* Paul.

DG: *three-minute pause that feels like forever* TOMBOY.

What is the philosophy behind your orderly album titles?

OH: The numbers mean our chronological ages by the time we are working on the album, so we can remember how old we were when we produced it. 20 when we were 20, and so on with 22 and 23. As for 21… There isn’t any just because… There just isn’t.

You are currently nominated for major awards like MAMA and MMA. What do you feel about it and how’s your preparation for the show?

OH: We are happy to get our first nomination ever at MAMA. As for the performance… Please just stay tune for the surprise.

Jakarta is your last destination for the World Tour before you return to South Korea. Do you have any expectation about it?

OH: We just expect no more flight *jokingly*. Since it’s our first ever live performance in Jakarta, we just have to make sure to perform our best.

What is the meaning behind your consistently artistic album artwork?

OH: To be honest, I don’t even know myself. There’s no actual interpretation about these. The man behind the artwork was my sunbae (senior) during school days. I just found his artwork very interesting and told him, “If someday I’m gonna make an album, I want you to illustrate the cover”. We just give him the tracklist to listen and let him illustrate it based on his own interpretation about the overall music.

What’s your favorite track from the latest album?

DG: TOMBOY. I think it has a really good melody—it rings a lot in my head.

IW:  Die Alone. It’s the song that helps me to concentrate during a performance.

OH: I would say TOMBOY. The song took the longest process to produce, so I remembered every detail of it very well.

HJ: I have two favorites: TOMBOY and 지정석 (Reserved Seat). I like them because the outcome somehow fits how I expect them to be.

What can we expect from HYUKOH in the future?

OH: We have a motto that goes “Everything that is done with pleasure is cool”. In the future, we would like to present our music that is always done with pleasure for our listeners.

As the roundtable session ended, four of them grabbed their coffee and went straightly to the porch to light some cigarettes. As the smoke resembled fog amidst the rain, the oversized coats they wore made them looking like spectres from behind. Despite the grim combination of coffee, their serious-yet-witty look, and the overwhelming smoke, I still can’t deny I wanted so badly to join them and offer a pack of local wisdom called Gudang Garam Signature. There’s a chance they would suspect me as suicidal for smoking such high dose of nicotine though, but come on—you cannot be a smoker and wandering in Jakarta without tasting a kretek once.

[larasati-utomo]

They Cry Too, Sometimes.

I read these letters, not lacking in words, but lacking in voice. They cry too, sometimes. I see the top of lighthouses, not lacking in light, but lacking in direction. They cry too, sometimes. I meet the homeless, not lacking in wealth, but lacking in comfort. They cry too, sometimes. I hear the nightingales singing, not lacking in melody, but lacking in spectators. They cry too, sometimes. And I know this child, not lacking in hope, but lacking in trust. She cries too, sometimes. And everything else does too, sometimes.

[larasati-utomo]

Reverb to Billy Joel’s “She’s Always A Woman”

She overpowers the truth and let herself be overwhelmed by the facts

She turns down the fate when all she’s got is faith

And she sets up all the rules for the game she wouldn’t play

If this is a race, she wins without a pace

'Cause she draws you a map, and goes her own way.

All she would do is

Open up the door only for you and never let you enter

‘Cause you’re the dumb one when you try to reason her

And you’re the numb one when you try to feel her

She gives you something she doesn’t have,

And takes everything that you are.

But she keeps her head down and her chin up

She painlessly cry and carelessly smile,

You cannot give her out and she wouldn’t give you in

You’ve never met one quite like her;

But she’ll always be a woman to you.

[larasati-utomo]

Ode to The Piano Man.

[larasati-utomo]

Worry not of dark times, for that is where the light that guides your way will be seen.

[larasati-utomo]

Scratches from “NOCTURNE: Overture”

“Do you love me, Mom?”

I pause as I hear the question, shifting my sight to a little girl who holds a stuffed bunny, asking her Mom who’s fixing the spilled ice cream on the pavement.

“Of course I do, Ahra-ya.”

It’s such an easy question, isn’t it? When your significant other asks you whether you love them or not, you answer with “I do”. You are taught to do that, even before you learn what ‘love’ actually means. But it was never easy for me. It’s so confusing. Why do you expect the answer “I do”, but on the other hand, also demand the truth? Even if the truth is that they do love you, why do you ask something you already know from the first place?

“Even after I spilled the ice cream?” Asked the girl. Her Mom laughs and hugs her. “My love for you doesn’t change just because you spilled the ice cream. It upsets me, but that’s okay.”

I gaze upon my shoes, cannot help but to smile. I guess I know what’ll happen next.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” I sync the little girl’s words perfectly. “I promise I won’t do it again. I love you, Mom.”

“It’s okay, Ahra-ya. I love you too.”

Human relations are so predictable when you already learn how to be lonely. I love you : I love you too. I’m sorry : It’s okay. All these phrases. It doesn’t matter what the truth is, you are taught to utter these phrases until you believe it’s the truth.

Even so, the truth, particularly the truth that I love JAC cannot change a thing—it does not change me, not her. Paradoxically, the more I utter to myself that I love her, the more obscure it means to me. I love her, I need her, and I want to be with her, but does telling her that change a thing?

[larasati-utomo]

How to Break a Glass Mirror, pt. 2

[larasati-utomo]

In this Town of Lovers

In this town of lovers,

Nobody knows that you are a discourse

Of a lying fact and silent passion

Talking not with tongue but with eyes

Of arguments tolled from faint discernment,

Of critiques drawn from failed postulations.

 In this town of lovers,

Nobody knows that you are a slip of the tongue

Of an unfulfilled wish and illicit desire

Dancing not with feet but with unthinkable emotions

Of language derived from me and mine only,

Of message never arrived to whom it concerns.

 In this town of lovers,

Nobody knows that you are a leap of faith

Of something so obvious and so oblivious

Devoting not with perseverance but with predicament

Of ignorance endured from utmost understanding,

Of solitude paid by unending solicitude.

 In this town of lovers,

Nobody knows and neither do you

That you are the finesse of artwork

We all have known as love;

Of madness of mind,

Of sanity of soul.

[larasati-utomo]

LA•RA•SA•TI

“Go deeper,” they said, “beyond the depth.”

All the omens they have known as my name

So little do they know, yet so deeply that I drown;

Often the deepest thought is the dumbest.

Often the deepest touch is the slightest.

Often the deepest cut is the dullest.

Often the deepest word is the silent.

Often the deepest sea is the calmest.

Often the deepest smile is the faintest.

Often the deepest sight is the emptiest.

Often the deepest sleep is the restless.

Often the deepest secret is the propagated.

Often the deepest wish is the flimsiest.

And often,

All too often,

The deepest abyss we clog

So abundantly with dreams of romance

Is so barely,

Unfathomably,

Perceptible.

[larasati-utomo]

PARALYSIS

The body cannot take what belongs to the soul

The brain cannot fathom what belongs to the heart

As sure as the words cannot contain the message,

As sure as the voice cannot beat the silence

My vein cannot bear the boiling heat that is my raging love

This wound I crack open leaves me in agony

Too painful I cannot remember joy

Though it was there - no, it is there

But I’m too paralyzed to be able to touch.

I am so desperately, unfathomably,yet so mildly,

Wanting to know if there is healing beyond all that’s painful

If there is strength above all i find fearful

If I’m going to break the threshold

Just to be there, laying my head on your shoulder

Without having to think of anything we are yet to know.

So, for now I would let the bullet roams inside my chest

I would let myself motionless, enduring the pain I am yet to understand

I would let my cells feel all they can feel

For they know better to save this heart that now belongs to you,

More than me,

More than you,

And what they need is only time.

[larasati-utomo]

Morning Theft.

Sleep is a time machine. You woke up one morning, not knowing time passes,

But it does - not only that it passes - it passes you by.

It takes you minutes to realize something is not the way it was when you fell asleep,

Something disappears

Leaving you with unexplained strangeness you see inside your most familiar room - something that is present inside your head but absent before your eyes.

You do not know how it disappears, you were not there when it was taken,

All you know is that something is not there anymore, and you do not even remember how that something actually looked like.

Perhaps you forgot where you put it the last time - but no - it was there the last time you saw it the night before,

But still, even if you eventually find it you wouldn’t know if it is the thing you are losing. Once again, it is hard to tell what in the world is that thing;

Instead of disappearing, it almost feels like it never existed before. The only thing that remarks its presence is the empty feeling that was not there before you fell asleep.

And freezing morning breeze strokes your nape. You turn your head around and realize that your window is broken.

Somebody broke in - while you asleep - somebody took that something from you and took it with him - or her?

All you have left is a terribly broken frame of your window, an big bad hole that takes a lot to repair.

But then you just decide to get up from your bed and go to work.

Perhaps if you let the window open the thief might show up again. And when that time comes, perhaps - just perhaps - he will take you with him.

[larasati-utomo]

Two Graveyards and A Home, pt. 1

The first few paragraphs of this paper is going to be irrelevant to what I’m about to say after the first three days of my stay in Surabaya. However, I am thinking this would be a good starter to enunciate how my train of thoughts flows, or simply to explain how anxious it is to talk about ‘home’.

I always consider this city as a place to “come back home”, although I never really live here all my life. I spent a considerable amount of time here during my childhood, but never for schooling or working—all that pretty much sums up a common life. To me, Surabaya is the place you’re attached with that it almost feels like home, but it is never your home. When hearing the news that I’m going to Surabaya by the end of June, one of my colleagues asked, “Oh, you’re going back home?”

My first reaction to ‘going back home’ was: I don’t know, am I going back home? It is hard to call a place ‘home’ when there isn’t actually anyone there waiting for you. But yes, for some vague reason I call that place ‘home’, so I nodded. During the lamest 20-hour road trip, it kept ringing in my head: “Am I going home? Whose home?”

Along that time I tirelessly try to make sense of it, trying to grip what, and where the home is. I am convinced that “home” is a recurring experience of déjà vu—a strange feeling of nostalgic familiarity to a place. Practically, it is highly possible to arrive at the same place twice, but we can never really experience exactly the same place twice. Home is not only a matter of space, but time as well. When we go back to that place, say twice or thrice, we are swindled to think that we’ve been there before, but we never really were. As time goes by and things change and rekindle with it, the place continually transforms—it is never the home we used to know each time we leave.

Paradoxically, it is the déjà vu-esque feeling that makes a home, where unspecified memories insist to burst out in your mind each time arrive there. This is where I got the idea to name this paper “Home Wasn’t Built In A Day”—a good pun I autistically consider as a witty one. This is due to the premise that it takes us to go back to (where we thought to be) the same place at least twice to know if it erupts the déjà vu feeling.

However, the exhausting long trip seems to multiply the aging process at least five times faster. I got really old when I arrived here and forgot that I was once a romantic thinker just few hours ago. The first question I asked while sightseeing the city I left for three years was, “What is the pricing range for a mid-sized house ‘round here?”

Suddenly, ‘home’ becomes a property investment to justify your status as a settled citizen. This precarious shift of thought is not without reason (or so I defend myself). I have made myself an ultimate commitment to raise a child; and for that I’m going to need at least three investments: a clinically-tested Father Function called husband, a nice small house, and a revolution job making sense enough to cover my child’s school and healthcare bills. A home, unfortunately, is no longer a life destination—but the least of faith required to strive for my goals. To add a little spice, I am among the millennials facing the insane price of housing, schooling, and healthcare. Sadly, I’m not as optimistic as the majority of us.

Yes, I know that for some romantic reasons people distinguish ‘a home’ from ‘a house’. I don’t mind mixing up the term—the best home possible is where your house is. I might buy the place (thus making it a house), but a (my) child wouldn’t care about that—it is a home for him/her. Once it is a safe haven for them, the distinction between ‘a house’ and ‘a home’ is futile (well, at least until they learn some poetry).

However, after rejuvenating the aging process by taking a lot of sleep and minimizing my antisocial tendency by ignoring all chat messages, I realize I was wrong about home. Not about the fact that the price is beyond humane—for in fact, it happens to be priceless. I was wrong to think that a home can endlessly reinvented through ‘déjà vu’, and more fundamentally, I was wrong to imagine home as a place.

[larasati-utomo]

Love is not something you find, it is something you exercise. It is a good exercise when it allows you to endure more pain, to survive a lot of bad training—to love truly. And those who love truly you do not crave because love is not something they consume but one they constantly create.

A.

[larasati-utomo]

[larasati-utomo]

In memoriam of Jeff Buckley (17 November 1966 - 29 May 1997)

[larasati-utomo]

Song to No One.

There was this man, on spring day like this: Whispered to my ears, As salted water filled his fancy shoes Amidst the whim of warm rifles, “Don’t you hear the ocean calling?” And as if his whispering voice Not enough to linger forever in my mind He sang, and old song of Led Zeppelin Which silenced all the sirens, envious of his pure drop Of evocative pain and awakening of the soul. His curly hair danced with the breeze As he moved his body to his own melody I watched him, his narrow shoulders from the back Waiting for him to take my hand and asked me to join his dance But he didn’t— Deep waters had fallen in love with him And way too possessive to lend his hand for me. Just one step, one step further That divides the endless ocean and my opened heart One step further, To reclaim his burning white soul to the cold, blue sea To sleep forever under the blanket of the seabed To stop his song before it ever finished And before I kissed him goodnight, his body disappeared With his one last chord— Hanging unwieldy like his memoirs.