Most of the Time

I ignore things. Like living in this stupid intolerant, racist fucking country. I just ignore it and go about things because i have to make a living somehow.

Then i see a picture of something from home. It brings back taste, sight, smells, heat.

Like a shot of someone drinking out of a coconut. I remember how we used to drip gula merah into coconuts, before scraping them out. The sugar mixed with the weird flavor of the mix, and it was delicious. Some people mixed sopi in with theirs, but I was young and didn’t care.

I remember sobbing when i had to write a paper using vivid descriptions; i talked about the houses that were built on stilts over the water in Sentani. The air smelled like salt and rotten fish; the sun was always way too bright. The boards creaked as you walked over them, the houses swayed. And it was so beautiful.

I miss bakso, sate ayam and rendang. My favorite rendang place was a crappy little joint that we always stopped at on the trip from Camplong to Atambua, in West Timor. It was cheap and relatively clean. I remember I had to use the bathroom once and so I had to walk around inside gloomy rooms and through the kitchen, to the squat pots that the dogs cleaned out for you.

I miss sleeping in late and playing with my friends. Once we went and stole star fruit from a neighbors yard. At least, that was the idea until my friends saw that the tree had been wrapped in dried bannanna tree husks. Apparently that meant it was cursed if you stole fruit some it. I laughed at them, and ate it anyways. Then I lived in fear for three or four days waiting to die or gain an extra nose or something.

Fuck I’m homesick. I feel like crying but my stupid nosy roommate is probably going to come in soon.

I miss the ocean like i cut out part of my heart and tossed it away. I remember the first time i stood up on a board. It kinda wobbles, but it’s moving really fast, and it still feels really sturdy. When I wiped out I ate it good, but it was incredible. In those days we knew it was time to get off our boards and come in because we could see the reef. Once i fell, opened my eyes, and was only three inches away from the coral. I came back up, told the girls it was time to jet. It’s still beautiful, so it didn’t matter.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go home. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave. The longer I stay here the more sucked in I am. It’s killing me. Every day, bit by bits. Memory by memory. Action by actions. I’m losing myself and I fucking hate it.

~ by manjamanis on October 9, 2008.

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