A Tale of Two Papers

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written on September 2015

Today my diploma certificate has finally arrived in the post. Sealed with Queen Elizabeth head, the size of the letter is nothing bigger than an A4. Inside, attached two piece of cream-coloured papers. One, the symbol of a dragon and deer; one in red and the other in blue on the centre of the paper where below says Honoured to Alifia Nuril Ikrami. It gives me chills more than when I watched Game of Throne’s Red Wedding episode, and I have never been so honoured. The second paper has more capital letter than Mrs. Weasley’s angry letter, only this is a breakdown of grades, all in black capital letter as if nothing else can emphasise the importance of it.

I stared at it for a while. My mother stares at me staring, while my grand father eyes gleam, waiting for me to hand over the paper. To me, those two papers aren’t just what it is. It symbolises years of sleepless nights, coffees, bottles of wine, unhealthy snacks and 24-hour library. Days of both emotional numbness missing home and joy in learning the curves of stranger’s tongue. It is the epilogue of eighteen years worth of a dream, and my father and family’s sweat and tears. It’s the projection of bon fire nights on the beach, the loneliest Christmas tree lights, when Marta and I got our first piercing, the love I had and lost. Representation of youth, the infinite possibilities.

Those papers holds the worst of times, the best of times.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Storage Almost Full

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originally published on Medium.

It begins when there’s a notification pops up on my phone, Storage Almost Full– I immediately thought of deleting some of my photos on my gallery because I know lately I have been slacking on filtering which photos deserve to stay or go, either shaky or too dark or wrong angle.

So, I opened Gallery on my main home screen, where the colourful circles after circle create shapes to some sort of flower. I scrolled up and up, until it reaches the top. The first photo is my father and brother on his graduation day, I remember I kept it for the journey back to Bournemouth in Summer 2013. And that, exactly what follows.

Strings of pictures of Bournemouth. Of me, in Bournemouth. Then, there’s this pinch at the centre of my chest. Like, maybe one of my veins intersect with, I don’t know, clashes, with something else, like there’s a thunder there or a mild car crash. Maybe it’s the muscle tighten, oxygen can’t get through. I don’t know, I’m not familiar with science, carrying this on will make me look stupid.

There’s one at Sixty Million Postcards, the hip pub in town where I had my first Bloody Mary cocktail, and my first kiss. Then there’s a picture of a pair of feet, it must’ve been Joe’s, the boy I dated many Summers ago, when I was too shy to take picture of him. I swiped left for more, there were Tya, Ratih and Omri, the home-blood relatives away from home, smiling ear to ear in front of the Winter Wonderland. I had my red reindeer hat from HnM on. We all looked incredibly, happy.

Right there, aside from an intense sense of longing, I cannot help but think, that those times were the best time of my life but how I wasn’t much aware of it when it’s happening. I know I had a great time, but I did not know yet that it’d be, or it was the greatest time of my life was happening before my eyes. In the low temperature, warmth in glass of pint, the arms of friends thousand miles away from home.

If I could go back in time, and tell the past-me that the next three years would be the greatest time I’d ever have, I probably won’t do anything differently. But I might just take more time to take a moment between the shifts of the day, at the beach, at the whiskey bar, at the bus stop, at the lower gardens, even in my bedroom to take a look around and inhale everything in, how pretty and in place everything was–

***

I had the option to shut my phone and put it somewhere far from my reach then tuck myself in under the duvet, but I get on. I scroll down deeper, deeper into the Nostalgia abyss. Forgetting I’m here to delete some of my pictures to have more space for now. 

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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How to Come Back

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Where to begin –

I am sorry for the radio silence. I wish I can say that I have not been writing because I have been busy writing elsewhere but unfortunately not. I do not even know what I have been busy with. Work and stuff, but that is a classic bullcrap. It should hold no justice of justifying months of absence – nothing is, not even heartbreak. All I know I am becoming more and more Millennials, choosing social media as the source of distraction from doing everything else that is soul-fulfiling because hey, it is so much easier (and mindless). Times I spent for writing have been taken away for, well, whatever it is. Of course, here by writing it means hours of drafting and drafting and drafting and re-writing and so on, you get the idea, other than it is time-consuming, it is, too, soul-consuming with the ever growing of self-criticism. So.

I thought of it, writing I meant, but it goes as far as a white blank page and blinking stripe. Then soon the arrow aims for the x, close tab, and the light shuts. I tried to compensate by doing more reading. Mostly news, first thing in the morning, as if understanding politics would make me more of an adult and that should make me feel better of whatever it is. Might as well jump in when the water is cold, I thought. Sometimes I read short fiction, too. Anything's under four minutes-read. Because somehow I always feel in a hurry of being somewhere else, having something else to do.

Other times, I am trying to read more of Indonesian writings. Poetries, short stories. It's beautiful. I jolted down a shitty rhymed paragraph or two, as if it is my first time learning the language – or even the culture, too. It's awkward, and raw, and stupid. But most often, I find myself looking back to old photos. The ones on the Beach. At the Whiskey Bar. Park. Under the English sun. Listening to playlist of The Long Walk to Campus or Wish I Were Here Soundtrack. Which ultimately leads to a thought of perhaps: I don't live in the now anymore. I am somewhere in between 2011 and 2016. And I don't know how to come back. What if, what if the only place you'd feel happy is in the past?

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Ada New York Hari Ini

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Hari itu aku menunggu penyair favoritku di antrian yang panjang. Diluar matahari masih malu malu untuk menyapa sehabis hujan. Sampai pada akhirnya di bubuhkannya tanda tangan pada halaman paling depan buku hitam putih bertajuk cinta dan adanya kota yang tidak pernah tidur. Terima kasih ku ucapkan tiga kali dengan nada manis, dia memberikan tatapan kembali kasih yang sederhana seraya menutup buku itu dan memberikannya kembali kepadaku. Namun, bagian favoritku bukan pada saat itu – tetapi ketika kamu berbisik sambil menunjuk ke arah tempat duduk penyair itu, "Suatu hari nanti aku percaya kamu yang akan duduk dibangku itu." 

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Dialog Dengan Malaikat

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Originally published on Medium

Dulu, aku mengutuk kepulanganku ke Ibu Kota. Secara diam-diam, aku menyalahkan nasib. Aku mengutuknya karena aku sudah terlanjur jatuh cinta kepada kota kecil di tanah Ratu Elizabeth itu. Dimana rasanya empat tahun melebih 18 tahun. Dimana aku merajut awal dari masa masa menemukan apa itu sesungguhnya arti dari matahari dan cinta. Aku pikir, kepergianku adalah akhir dari suatu cerita cinta. Namun, ternyata aku salah.

Aku hanya sudah terlalu lama lupa.

Tuhan mengingatkanku melalui datangnya kembali sosok pria dari ujung jalan Masa Lalu yang hampir terbenam dalam kenangan masa SMA. Namanya Timothy, panggilannya Timmy. Dari nama dan tajamnya lekuk rahangnya, bisa di lihat dia tidak berasal dari pulau Jawa. Tetapi, tata bahasanya sehalus orang Solo.
Dia menyapa kembali dengan kehangatan yang sama sambil membawa buku berwarna merah di tangannya. ‘Judul buku ini mengingatkan aku padamu,’ Bidadari Yang Mengembara karya A.S Laksana. ‘Baca ya.’ Aku tersenyum dan menyeselesaikannya kurang dari dua hari.

Tidak lama setelah itu, tepatnya hanya selang beberapa minggu, pada suatu malam Sabtu yang penuh tawa di suatu kedai kopi di Cikini, aku menemukan sesuatu. Di tengah menu-nya tertertera puisi pendek dari Sapardi Djoko Damono, judulnya Aku Ingin. Lapisan laminating menu itu sudah lusuh, entah berapa ratus tangan pernah dengan asal melipat, atau meremas, kertas itu. Namun diatas kertas merah marun diketik dengan tinta putih, puisi itu tetap terlihat hidup. Pernahkah kamu membaca puisi itu? Akan aku bacakan sepenggal baitnya:
Aku ingin mencintaimu dengan sederhana; dengan kata yang tak sempat diucapkan kayu kepada api yang menjadikannya abu.
Aku tersedak dan langsung menaruh menu itu kembali ke meja. Dengan terburu buru aku mengambil telfon genggamku lalu menggerutu kesal kepada Timmy.

Sudah pernah baca Aku Ingin? Bagaimana caranya seseorang bisa menulis puisi seindah itu?

Bukannya aku sudah pernah bilang? Kamu baru baca?

Iya. Gila! Kata yang diucapkan kayu kepada api yang menjadikannya abu?

Kok bisa saja terpikir apa yang dikatakan kayu ketika dia sedang terbakar?

Ya, hanya orang-orang yang sering berdialog dengan malaikat

yang tahu, dan bisa, cara menulis seperti itu.

***

Disitu aku tersadar, bahwa kepulanganku ke Ibu Kota bukan kutukan, tapi berkat. Aku hanya terlalu lama lupa pada keindahan Ibu Pertiwi dan bahasanya. Aku hanya butuh di ingatkan kalau ini bukan akhir dari cerita cinta, tapi awal dari perjalanan aku mencintai Sastra. Sastra Indonesia.

Dan semoga saja juga untuk berdialog dengan malaikat.

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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Island in the Sun

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"And me? I still believe in paradise. But now at least I know it's not some place you can look for. Because it's not where you go. It's how you feel for a moment in your life when you're a part of something. And if you find that moment... It lasts forever."

(The Beach 2000)

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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A Matter of Heart

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♫

2015

This is the hundredth attempt of me writing this story.

The first one was at the Gatwick Airport lounge as I sat on the leathered-iron chair, waiting with thousand other passengers. I had just gone through a long debacle of two overweight luggages at the check-in counter, where I'd like to tell the chubby-cheek man in uniform, "I'm sorry for trying to fit in all of four years worth of my life into two luggages. And I might've miscalculated the weighing measure. Sorry! Can I just get through? I've got nineteen hours flight ahead of me!"

Second, was at Schiphol International Airport. With two hours to kill, I sat next to the window facing the runways. I remember the scent of airplane engine waste, and the summer sun casted shadow on my brand new notebook, a parting gift from Marta that says Carpe Diem on the cover, written in shiny gold ink.

The following attempts after that were all blur. I only remember it was never longer than two sentences and involved a lot of uncomfortable feelings.

Since I stepped on the plane, I thought I was a time-bomb – I'd explode anytime soon. I imagined floods of tears, uncontrollable rage, emotional waves. But I waited only to find out, it was far bigger, quieter, deadlier than a bomb.

My body began to weaken. There it happened; regular headaches, diarrhoea, and throwing up every two weeks for one consecutive month. I often found myself face down on my pillow, or in a foetus position, holding both of my hands on my tummy, secretly asking for my mother's attention to rub minyak kayu putih on my stormy belly.

"It's psychological, Sayang." She said. "Are you unhappy?" I looked away, could not come up with an answer. So, I stayed silent.

I then remember when I looked at their eyes, when I said I loved it there, it has been difficult moving back in, I could tell to them those were just strings of words. An exaggeration. Nothing more than a statement. But to me, it was real. England had made me feel something that Indonesia couldn't and I wish I could explain how dear it felt, but I couldn't. I wish I could explain why but I couldn't get any farther than one perhaps: because it's my choice. I wasn't born to it. I chose to love that place and I found most of the things in it are larger than life, even when sometimes it doesn't make any sense.

And that what makes saying goodbye to England is beyond heartbreaking.

**

Nevertheless, it would be unfair to define 2015 only by one goodbye. I have said hello to the other part of continent I never thought in my wildest dream to visit last April, North Africa! To the people I met at youth hostel when I decided to travel on my own up to Liverpool and Cardiff, where I learned how to not feel uncomfortable ordering table for one at Nandos on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Liverpool One. To a local beauty on the east side of Indonesia with a dear friend, where I learned peace does come from within. And last but not least, I did, too, say hello to the bachelor degree I finally earned after four years of great hard work (and play, of course). And all the tough love the age of twenty three has offered.

**

But my God, it's 2016!

Look at all of the bright places we have been to! All the emotions we have felt! People we have met! Lesson we have learned! Bands we have seen! Old sweaters we have thrown! Lips we have kissed! Tears we have shed! Well done for getting through another year in one piece with a little bump of emotional damage here and there! That's great! We're here, aren't we! Let's raise our shot glass full with liquor of your choice to get through another set of 365 days!

   

A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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