Father Forgets

by W. Livingston Larned


“Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls wet on your damp forehead.

I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye Daddy!” and I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive – and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding – this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills.

This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours.

But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy – a little boy!”

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot. I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.”


The guy at the elevator

Friday night, a friend and I were just heading out home from a tired day at work. It was 7 PM, and the office is a bit quieter than usual somehow. When approaching the elevator, we saw a guy just entered the elevator and the door was closing. Oh great, now we have to wait for it to come down and up again since there’s only one elevator working at night.

But weird enough, the elevator didn’t come down, it just stand (or hang?) still. Alright, maybe he forgot to press the button, happens all the time. So I press the button, elevator door is opening, and… no one inside. And no, I’m not making this up.

I Just Can’t Understand Art

No matter how hard i’ve tried, I just can’t. Yesterday for example, I got a chance to watch a work by Garin Nugroho, Opera Jawa. I met the person myself, younger than I thought really. The synopsis goes like this (from the youtube page).

Setyo and Siti live a peaceful life as husband and wife, selling earthenware in their village. But when Setyo is called away on business, a flirtatious butcher, Ludiro, takes advantage of Siti’s loneliness to seduce her. Tempted by song and dance, Siti initially refuses his advances but acquiesces in a moment of weakness, setting the stage for an epic battle between the two men. Located in lush forests and on pristine beaches of Java, director Garin Nugroho bases his deeply imagistic and dazzling visual narrative on the “The Abduction of Sita,” from the Hindu epic, The Ramayana.

Opera Jawa is featured in Global Lens 2008, a U.S. based touring film series presented by The Global Film Initiative. Global Lens 2008 showcases ten feature films from Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Middle East.

It was quite good, I must say. But the thing is, Why like that? Why doing such weird, unnecessary stuff like that? Why can’t it be more simple? But hey, it just me 😛 Everytime I see an art performance (real art, not modern art), all I want to say is :


Bboys, Hip Hop Art

A few weeks ago I went to this amazing hip hop art performance at Taman Ismail Marzuki, starring this two guys Raphael Hillebrand and Sebastien Ramirez. The event itself, held by Centre Culturel Francais (CCF) and Goethe-Institut. How can I describe an art exhibition? very unlikely 😛 Just see it for yourself. Here’s a few highlights.

Of course, it’s a lot better if you seen it live. This is another one that looks a like, The Art of Urban Dance, Locking then Popping.

Another one, check out the girls 😛

And this is one of my favourite bboys battle of all time, Korea final, Rivers vs Drifters.