It is killing me. I feel being muted (and castrated), to speak in a language, which is not mine. Bit by bit, it is VERY clear to me, I should not use my street language for writing my thesis. Not because I want to be seen as a killer academic bitch, but I want my words, or my saying to have “soul”, greget. Why I didn’t agree (with myself) to use “street vendors in Manggarai” when translated “pedagang asongan di Manggarai” into English, and then after a week – gladly I found the right word: street hawkers, which satisfied me soooo well. Because the word “hawker” stands much more better to express: pedagang asongan yang harus siap digusur atau dikejar-kejar Satpol PP hehe, don’t you think so too?
Then I remember all my lecturers in Kajian Wanita, Universitas Indonesia – how I adore them from the way they’ve expressed themselves through their words-choices. Karlina Leksono, Gadis Arivia, Manneke Budiman, Haryatmoko, Surti Hidayat, Kristi Poerwandari, Melani Budianta – how their writings or sayings can kill you. They know exactly what they wanted to say without loosing their feeling, personality, expression, thoughts, ideas, and soul. They writings are not just about “scarry” words, which are lining up and form paragraphs, which will give you “stress” and “sleepy eyes” during your readings, yet they are very powerful in giving you certain insights, empower you, and sometimes deliver you to be a better human.
Doh. I envy Inaya, for her amazing English, envy her for being able to express herself in English. I hate being MUTED. I hate being CASTRATED. argh. argh. argh. argh.
I wish I could write my thesis in Bahasa Indonesia, instead of in English.
*ahhh, suddenly I am proud being able to speak in Bahasa Indonesia hehe*
This is one of extravaganza of writings from Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari in their book Anti-Oedipus (1984, p. 1-2), which has given me strong impression.
It is at work everywhere, functioning smoothly at times, at other times in fits and starts. It breathes, it heats, it eats. It shits and fucks. What A MISTAKE to have ever said the id. Everywhere it is machines – real ones, not figurative ones: machines driving other machines (haha), machines being driven by other machines, with all the necessary couplings and connections. An organ-machine is plugged into an energy-source-machine: the one produces a flow that the other interrupts (hihi). The breast is a machine that produces milk, and the mouth a machine coupled to it (oh!). Themouth of the anorecix wavers between several functions: its possessor is uncertain as to whether it is an eating-machine, an anal machine, a talking machine, or a breathing-machine (asthma attacks) (hoho). Hence we are all handymen: each with his little machines. For every organ-machine, an energy-machine: all the time, flows and interruptions. Judge Schreber has sunbeam in his ass. A solar anus (LOL).