Gigi hopes Madame
Mouton won’t mind her
Trying on her new

Clothes after all when
Will she ever get
To buy such garments

And Madame has so
Many anyway
Surely, she would not

Care, but nonetheless
Gigi knows she must
Be careful not to

Leave any of her
Rather cheap perfume
All over the clothes

And not leave hairs
Or red smudges of
Lipstick. She puts on

The underwear and
Feels on her flesh the
Silky softness, the

Touch next to her skin,
The smoothness which is
So sensual. She

Parades around her
Mistress’s bedroom
Posing in front of

The mirror, trying
Not to imagine
Old Monsieur Mouton

Finding her there, she
Dismisses the thought
Like a naughty child

From a room. She pulls
On the dress and does
Up the buttons at

The back. Easier
Said than done; fingers
Fiddle, too many

Thumbs. Done it. She looks
Back at her new found
Reflection, does a

Turn around. Looks at
Her behind. She stands
Admiring the

Dress. Madame has so
Many; Gigi says,
I have so few. She

Listens. Is that her
Back home already?
Gigi undoes the

Buttons and pulls off
The dress over her
Head and takes off the

Silky underwear
And stuffs both items
Under the bed and

Climbs under herself.
The door opens and
Footsteps enter the

Room. Gigi? Madame
Mouton calls out loud.
Gigi? Where this that

Girl? You can never
Find her anywhere.
Maids, what can one do

With them? They are so
Lazy. Then Madame
Mouton leaves the room

And closes the door
Behind her, calling
Gigi’s name louder

And louder. Gigi
Breathes out and watches
A large black spider

Crawl across her thigh
And holds back with great
Effort the loud cry.

Shortly after 3pm on September 29, 31-year-old Olivier Rousteing strode through the shimmering, fleshy backstage area at Balmain's Spring 2017 Paris Fashion Week show. Along the marble hallway of a hôtel particulier in the 8th arrondissement, long-limbed clusters of supermodels were gamely tolerating final applications of leg-moisturiser, make-up touch-ups and minutely precise hair interventions from squads of specialists as fast and accurate as any Formula 1 pit-stop team. The crowd parted as Rousteing swept through.

Wearing a belted, black silk tuxedo and a focused expression that accentuated his razor-sharp cheekbones, Rousteing resembled a sensuous hit man. Target identified, he led us to the board upon which photographs of every outfit were tacked.

We asked him to tell us about the collection (for that's what fashion editors always ask). "There is no theme," said Rou­steing in his fast, French-accented lilt. "No inspiration from travel or time. The inspiration is what I feel, and what I feel now is peace, light and serenity. I feel like in my six years here before this, I have tried to fight so many battles. Because there is no point anymore in fighting about boundaries and limits in fashion. Balmain has its place in fashion."

And the clothes? "There is a lot of fluidity. A lot of knitwear, lightness, ponchos. No body-con dresses. But whatever I do, even if I cover up my girls, it is like people can say I am ******. So this is what it is. I think there is nothing ******. I think it is really chic. I think it is really French. It is how I see Paris. And I have had too many haters during the last three years to defend myself again. So, this is Balmain." And then the show began.

Star endorsements

Under Rousteing, Balmain has become the most controversial fashion house in Paris. Rousteing has attracted (but not bought, as other, far bigger houses do) patronage from contemporary culture's most significant influencers. Rihanna, all the Kardashians, Kanye West, Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, Beyoncé, Justin Bieber – a royal flush of modern celebrity aristocracy – all champion him.

Immediately after this show, in that backstage hubbub, Kim Kardashian told me: "I thought it was very powerful…I loved the sequins, and I loved all the big chain mail belts – that was probably my favourite."

Yet for every famous fan there is a member of the fashion establishment who will sniff over coffee in Le Castiglione that Rousteing's crowd is declassé and his aesthetic best described by that V-word. The New York Times' fashion critic Vanessa Friedman reckoned this collection appropriate for "dressing for the captain's dinners on a cruise ship to Fantasy Island". At least she did not use the V-word. When I once deployed it – as a compliment – in a 2015 Vogue menswear review that declared "Rousteing is confidently negotiating a fine line between extravagance and vulgarity", I was told that Rous­teing was aggrieved.

The fashion world's ambivalence towards Rousteing is a measure of its conflicted feelings towards much in contemporary culture. Last year Robin Givhan of the Washington Post wrote of Balmain: "The French fashion house is always ostentatious and sometimes ******. It feeds a voracious appetite for attention. It is anti-intellectual. Antagonistic. Emotional. It is shocking. It is perfect for this era of social media, which means it is powerfully, undeniably relevant."

Since joining Instagram four years ago Rousteing has posted 4000 images and won 4 million followers. The combined reach of his audience members and models at this Balmain show was greater than the population of Britain and France combined. Balmain was the first French fashion house to gain more than 1 million followers, and currently has 5.5 million of them.

Loving his haters

As digital technology disrupts fashion, Balmain's seemingly effortless mastery of the medium galls some. Last year, the designer posted an image of a comment from a ****** follower to his feed. It read: "Olivier Rousteing spends more times taking selfies for Instagram than designing clothes for Balmain." Underneath, in block capitals, he commented "i love my haters".

Rousteing can be funny and flip – doing a video interview after the show, I opened by asking, tritely, how he felt. He replied: "Now I feel like some Chicken McNuggets with barbecue sauce, and then some M&M;'s ice cream."

When at work, however, that flipness flips to entirely unflip. The previous evening, at a final fitting for the collection, Rousteing had paced his studio, his face a scowl of concentration, applying final edits to the outfits to be worn by models Doutzen Kroes and Alessandra Ambrosio. The 30-strong team of couturiers working in the adjoining atelier delivered a steady stream of altered dresses.

"We are ready," he said from behind a glass desk in a rare moment of downtime. "This a big show – 80 looks – and I want a collection that is full of both the commercial and couture. But it's smooth too. All of the girls are excited about the after-party and interested in the music. And eating pizza." In the corridor outside Gigi Hadid – this season's apex supermodel – was indeed eating pizza, with gusto.

The fitting went on until far beyond midnight; Rousteing, fiercely focused, demonstrated the work ethic for which he is famous. When he was studio manager for Christophe Decarnin, his predecessor at Balmain, the young then-unknown was always the first in and last out of the studio. Emmanuel Diemoz, who joined Balmain as finance controller in 2001 and became chief executive in 2011, says that his hard graft was one of the reasons he was chosen to succeed Decarnin.

"For sure it was quite a gamble," says Diemoz. "But we could see the talent of Olivier. Plus he understood the work of Christophe – who had helped the brand recover – so he represented continuity. He was a hard worker, clearly a leader, with a lot of creativity. Plus the size of the turnover at that time was not so huge. So we were able to take the risk."

Clear leader

Which is why, aged 24, Rousteing became the creative director of one of Paris's best known – but indubitably faded – fashion houses. In 2004 it had been close to bankruptcy. In 2012, Rousteing's first full year in charge, Balmain's sales were €30.4 million and its profit €3.1 million. In 2015, sales were €121.5 million and its profit €33 million. Vulgarity is subjective; numbers are not.

Rousteing, who is of mixed race, was adopted at five months by white parents and enjoyed an affluent and loving upbringing in Bordeaux. "My mum is an optician and my dad was running the port. They are both really scientific – not artistic. So I had that kind of life. Bordeaux is really bourgeois and really conservative, I have to say."

After an ill-starred three-month stint at law school – "I was doing international law. And I was like, 'oh my God, that is so boring'" – he did a fashion course that he managed to tolerate for five months.

"I found that really boring as well. I just don't like actually people who are trying to **** your dream. And I felt that is what my teachers were trying to do."

Obsessed with Gucci

Following a three-month internship in Rome – "also boring" – Rousteing became fascinated with Tom Ford's work at Gucci. "I was obsessed, obsessed, obsessed. Sometimes the press did not get it but I thought 'this is like genius, the new **** chic'. Obsessed, full stop."

He wanted to work there – "that was my dream" – but applied to every fashion house he could, and found an opportunity to intern at Roberto Cavalli. "They took me in from the beginning. I met Peter Dundas [then womenswear designer at the brand] and he said you are going to be my right hand – and start in four days."

Rousteing counts his five years in Italy as formative both creatively and commercially, but when the opportunity came to return to France in 2009 he leapt at it. "Christophe said he liked my work and that he needed someone to manage the studio. So two weeks later I was here. I loved Balmain at the time, when Christophe was in charge. It was all about rock 'n' roll chic, ****, Parisian. And he was appealing to a younger generation. You can see when brands become old but Balmain was touching this new audience. I always say Christophe's Balmain was Kate Moss but mine is Rihanna."

When Decarnin left and Rousteing replaced him, the response was a resounding "who?". His youth prompted some to anticipate failure.

"It was not easy at all. Every season I had the same questions." Furthermore, Rousteing (who has said he thinks of himself as neither black nor white) was the only non-white chief designer at a Parisian couture house. In a nation in which very few people of colour hold senior positions, his race may have contributed both to the establishment's suspicion of him and to his powerful sense of being an outsider.

'Beautiful spirit'

As he began to build a personal vernacular of close-fitted, heavily jewelled, gleefully grandiose menswear – fantastical uniform for a Rousteing-imagined gilded age – for both women and men, that V-word loomed.

"They asked, 'But is it luxury? Is it chic? Is it modern?' All those kinds of words. But you know there is no one definition [of fashion] even if people in Paris think there is. And, I'm sorry, but I think the crowd in fashion are those who understand the least what is avant-garde today."

In 2013 Rihanna visited the studio, met Rousteing, and reported all with multiple Instagram posts. "You are the most beautiful spirit, so down to earth and kind! @olivier_rousteing I think I'm in love!!! #Balmain." :')"

Rousteing met Kim Kardashian at a party in New York – they were drawn together, he recalls, because they were both shy – and was promptly invited to lunch with her family in Los Angeles.

An outsider in the firmament of old-guard Paris fashion, Rousteing was earning insider status within a new, and much more influential, supranational elite. He points out that Valentino, Saint Laurent and Pierre Balmain himself "were close to the jet set of their time. What I have on my front row is the people who inspire my generation".

From them, he learned a new way of doing business. "I think it was Rihanna and the music industry that first understood how Instagram can be part of the business world as well as the personal. But in fashion? When we started it was 'why do you post selfies? Why do we need to know your life, see you waking up, see you working? Why don't you keep it private'. And I was like 'you will see'."

Rousteing cheerfully declares his love for Facetune – "I don't have Botox but I do have digital Botox!" – an app that helps him airbrush his selfies and tweak those ski-***** cheekbones.

Reaching new population

From his office around the corner from Rousteing's, Diemoz adds: "When Olivier first proposed Balmain use social media, our investment in traditional media was costing a lot. Here was an alternative costing less but bringing huge visibility. It has been successful, quite rapidly…we decided to be less Parisian in a way but to speak to a new population. A brand has to be built around its heritage but we are proposing a new form of communication dedicated to a wider group of customers."

The impact of that strategy became apparent in 2015, when Rousteing and Balmain were invited to design a collection for the Swedish fast-fashion retailer H&M.; Within minutes of going on sale – and this is not hyperbole – the collection, available at vastly cheaper prices than Balmain-proper, had completely sold out. In London, customers fought on the pavement outside H&M;'s Regent Street branch. "Balmainia!" blared the headlines.

You have to move fast to get backstage after a Balmain show. I was out of my seat and trotting with purpose even before the string-heavy orchestra at the end of the catwalk had quite stopped playing Adele.

Rousteing had taken his bow merely seconds before. Still, too slow: I ended up in a clot of Rousteing well-wishers stuck in a corridor blocked by security guards. A Middle Eastern woman against whom I was indelicately jammed looked at me, laughed, shook her head, then said: "We pay millions for a fashion house – and then this happens!"

In June, Balmain was bought for a reported €485 million by Mayhoola, a Qatar-based wealth fund said to be controlled by the nation's ruling family. As so often with Rousteing-related revelations, some declared themselves nonplussed. "Why Would Mayhoola Pay Such a High Price for Balmain?", one headline asked. Yet Mayhoola, which acquired Valentino four years previously for $US858 million, might have scored a bargain.

Clothes key to revenue

Despite its huge, Instagram-enhanc­ed footprint, Balmain is a small, lean and relatively undeveloped business. Most luxury fashion houses today – Chanel, Burberry, Dior, et al – will emphasise their catwalk collections for marketing purposes but make most of their money from the sale of accessories, fragrances and small leather goods like handbags and shoes. One of the big fashion companies makes a mere 5 per cent from its catwalk clothes.

At Balmain, by contrast, clothes bring in almost all the revenues. If Balmain had the same clothes-to-accessories ratio as its competitors, its overall annual income could be more than €1 billion ($1.4 billion).

The company is moving in that direction. New accessory lines are in the pipeline. "Now we have to transform that desire into business activity," said Diemoz. "Sunglasses, belts, fragrances, the kind of products that can be more affordable."

The first bags should be available in January, as will a wider range of shoes, and then more, more, more.

Six days after his show, on the last day of Paris Fashion Week, I returned to the Balmain atelier. Apart from two assistants, Rousteing was the only person there – everybody else had gone on holiday to recover from the frenzy of preparing the show, or was busy selling the collection at the showroom around the corner.

Rousteing sat behind his desk in the empty room, wearing slingback leopard-print slippers, sweatpants and shades. "I am not even tired! I am excited. Because there are so many things happening – and I can't wait."Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

Gigi Hadid wore pearls, a t-shirt and jeans to Paris fashion week. So, our (Lisa, Leeza and my) theme for this New Year’s Eve is “Jeans and pearls.” To be accurate, Gigi’s distressed, slouchy bottom, boyfriend jeans were embroidered with pearls - the pearls weren’t worn as a necklace - but Lisa and I think anything involving embroidery is a trailer-park trend - so we’ll be wearing strings of pearls. If Karen (Lisa and Leeza’s mom) lets us, that is.

Karen has four strings of Tiffany pearls - called Essential, Ziegfeld, Akoya and South Sea Noble. They’re all 16-inch, single strand strings (which we all prefer) and they range in value from $600 (the Akoya) to the expensive (South Sea Noble) string - that she won’t lend anyone. The good news is, if anyone is thinking of buying me a string of pearls, I can’t tell the difference between the cheap string and the expensive string.

Leeza (Lisa’s 13-year-old sister) wants to be included in EVERYTHING this year, which is funny because last year she either attacked us or completely ignored us. This year, Leeza has a thirteen-year-old’s razor-sharp instincts and relentless curiosity.

As we’re Planning New Year’s Eve, Ethan Bortnick’s song, “Engraving” was playing. It’s a crazy song with middle-school, EMO, angsty vibes. One of the lines of the song is “strip for me”. As the song ends, Leeza suddenly asks us, “Have you two ever been to a *******?”
“No”, I answered.
Lisa said, “Once.”
“What?!” I asked.
“Really?” Leeza gasped, “Spill!” She demanded.
“This has random context,” Lisa begins, “I’ve been inside a ******* once in my life.”
Leeza and I tittered nervously. “I’m scared,” Leeza said, as an aside, grinning and rubbing her hands on her knees, clearly more delighted than scared.
“I was attending a middle school, Model UN conference, at Brown University,” Lisa continued, “and they took all the kids to a ******* for their model UN social.”
I gasped and blurted “There’s NO way this happened.”
“Yes,” Lisa insisted, “you can ask my mom.” she said, with a serious look, “And, and obviously, it was rented out for the night, but they didn’t, like, think to take away any of the normal features. There weren’t any strippers, but they didn’t take the poles down and they didn’t turn off the multiple TV screens on all the walls that were playing their normal rotating video content.”
“Wow,” I said, with my hand over my mouth. Meanwhile, Leeza was chortling like a mad woman and rocking back and forth.
“Everyone walked in,” Lisa went on, “and it was just middle schoolers, thirteen years old. There were pictures of the dancers on the poles, and our history teacher came in, and freaked OUT, saying, “Oh, no, No, NO!” Because it was a school event, we had taken school buses there, it was a boondoggle. They turned us all around and hustled us out of there.”
Leeza had stood up and was twirling with glee. Middle schoolers live for chaos.
“Taken out of context,” I said, “It was crazy you went to a ******* in middle school.”
“It was a jump scare, for sure,” Lisa confirmed, “we went from one vibe, a school field trip, to a *******.”

Anyway, for New Year’s, a lot is still up in the air - undecided - but we’re determined that we want to have a blast. We’re young and we want to support bad ***** energy (BBE).
“Oh, I have a BBE song!” Lisa squeals, “Mafiosa!” (by Nathy Peluso) She names it as it begins playing.

The songs in Spanish and when it ended, I’d looked up the lyrics because my 2 years of Spanish weren’t good enough. I tell Leeza the lyrics go: “Let the bad men fear me, when I arrive in my car - they speed off.”
“Yes!” Lisa Laughs, “We don’t drive - but, YES!”
“Emotionally,” I say, laughing too. “But verse two asks the great question, “What the frack is wrong with men when it comes to women?”
“It’s,” Lisa started, looking up and searching for words, “SUCH a timeless question.”
“Why’d you pick that song?” Leeza asked.
Lisa chuckled,” Because you don’t get more BBE than a female Mafiosa killer.”

Update: Karen agreed that as long as Charles is with us (and really, when isn’t he with us?), we can borrow the three inexpensive pearl strings (worth about 5k). So, I’ll be wearing the Akoya pearls, an Anna Molinari white, basic, cotton-shirt, washed denim cropped jeans with white bridal flats and Lisa and Leeza will wear their own, white tops, jeans, flats and pearls and we’ll be on-theme.

Happy New Year’s Everyone!

Sebuah cerita pendek*

Saat itu mereka sering menonton Mak Lampir di televisi, dan mulai memanggil wanita yang merupakan nenek kandungnya dengan nama yang sama.

Nenek itu punya nama, dan jelas namanya bukan Lampir. Tapi apa pedulinya anak-anak itu dengan nama aslinya? Mereka tak pernah mendengar nama nenek disebut. Mereka sendiri yatim-piatu, dan dahulu, orangtuanya tak pernah mengajarkan nama nenek mereka. Tapi begitu melihat Mak Lampir di teve, mereka langsung mendapat ide untuk memanggil nenek sebagai Mak Lampir. Rambutnya nenek putih panjang dan tiap malam dibiarkan terurai, ia sedikit bungkuk dengan kedua tangan yang terlihat begitu kuat dan cekatan. Matanya senantiasa melotot—bukan karena suka marah, tapi memang bentuknya seperti itu. Yang terbaik dari nenek, meski giginya menghitam sudah, nenek selalu berbau harum karena suka meramu minyak wanginya sendiri. Mereka tidak takut melihat Mak Lampir—mereka justru kagum karena sosok itu mengingatkan pada nenek yang selalu menjaga mereka.

Si nenek sama sekali tidak keberatan dengan julukan itu, ia malah merasa nyaman. Disebut sebagai Mak Lampir membuatnya merasa seperti orang tua yang sakti, hebat, dan serba bisa. Nenek adalah Mak Lampir baik hati yang selalu mengabulkan permohonan cucu-cucunya, serta memberi mereka wejangan. Jenar dan Narsih sayang dan berbakti pada nenek. Nenek—yang sekarang berubah panggilan menjadi Mak—adalah dunia mereka. Dua gadis itu dapat menghapal tiap lekuk pada keriput Mak, menebak-nebak warna baju apa yang akan dipakai Mak pada hari mendung, bahkan mereka ingat betul kapan saja uban-uban Mak mulai bermunculan.

Mak awalnya tidak menyukai, bahkan hampir membenci, dua anak gadis yang harus diurusinya. Ia terlalu tua untuk melakukan hal ini lagi. Wanita  yang sudah tak ingat dan tak ingin menghitung usianya lebih memilih kembang-kembang di taman ketimbang Jenar dan Narsih.  Mak lebih memilih segala tanaman yang ada di rumah kaca sederhananya ketimbang dua cucunya.

Tapi saat sedang menyirami bunga matahari dan membiarkan Jenar serta Narsih bergulingan tertutup tanah basah, Mak merasa seolah ada yang membisikinya, “Sama-sama dari tanah, sama-sama tumbuh besar. Dari tanah, untuk tanah, kembali ke tanah.” Wangsit itu langsung membawa matanya yang sudah sedikit rabun namun tetap nyalang pada sosok dua cucunya yang sudah tak karu-karuan, menghitam karena tanah.

Sejak saat itulah Mak menganggap Jenar dan Narsih sebagai kembang. Sebagai kembang. Sebagai kembang dan seperti kembang yang ia tanam dan kelak akan tumbuh cantik nan indah. Harum, subur, anggun, lebur. Perlahan Mak mulai meninggalkan kebun dan rumah kacanya, perhatiannya ia curahkan untuk Jenar dan Narsih, yang namanya Mak singkat sebagai Jenarsih saat ingin memanggil keduanya sekaligus. Jenarsih dijahitkannya baju-baju berwarna, diberi makanan sayur-mayur yang sehat, diajarkannya meramu minyak wangi, bahkan diberi minum jamu secara terjadwal sebagaimana Mak menyirami bunga.

Kebun Mak perlahan-lahan melayu dan makin sayu. Saat matahari mengintip, tidak ada bebunga yang tergoda untuk mekar. Semuanya redup dan meredup, mentari pun meredup pula di kebun Mak. Karena sirnanya kembang dan embun, Mak tak lagi bisa memetik dari kebunnya untuk membuat wewangian khasnya. Mak jadi sering menyuruh Jenarsih untuk memborong bunga.

Tapi sebagaimana ada gelap ada terang, selepas kebun yang muram, kau akan memasuki beranda rumah di mana matahari tak henti-hentinya bersinar. Bagian dalam rumah yang ditinggali seorang nenek ranum dan cucu-cucunya itu melukiskan hari cerah di musim penghujan.

Di musim penghujan
Di musim penghujan
Musim penghujan
Membawa mendung dan kabut yang menyelubungi mentari.

Narsih jatuh sakit, ia terbatuk-batuk dan memuntahkan darah
Darah merah
Darah
Merah
Jenar selalu di sisinya dan melarang Mak untuk mendekat karena takut tertular.

Mak, meski tak lagi dapat menghitung umurnya, mati-matian menawarkan Jenar agar mau digantikan oleh Mak saja. Umur Mak tak bakal sebanyak Jenar, mending Mak saja yang di sisi Narsih, katanya. Tapi Jenar tak mau tahu, ia lebih memilih berada di sisi kembarannya ketimbang menuruti perkataan Mak yang biasanya tak pernah ia bantah. Semenjak itu mentari tak lagi menyembul. Kebun telah mati, rumah kaca tak lagi rumah kaca, beranda dingin, dan setiap hari adalah penghujan yang tak pernah mau pergi.

Hijau dan jingga hangat berubah menjadi rona kehitaman dalam hijau pucat. Ranting-ranting serta daun memenuhi jalan. Sesekali Mak mengantarkan makanan ke depan pintu kamar Jenarsih, tapi sebagian besar usia senjanya kini dihabiskan mengurung diri di kamarnya setelah Jenar ikut membatukkan darah.

Di suatu sore Mak tidak memperdulikan apapun lagi. Ia menghambur masuk ke kamar Jenarsih dan bersimpuh di bawah kasur kedua cucunya. Jenarsih tak punya tenaga lebih untuk menghalangi Mak, mereka hanya punya satu permintaan. Satu keinginan yang kira-kira dapat membuat mereka merasa lebih baik.

Dengan tersengal-sengal,
“Mak Lam, Jenar dan Narsih ingin bunga matahari.”
“Akan Mak belikan segera di pasar kembang.”
“Ndak mau, Mak. Ingin yang Mak tanam seperti dulu.”
“Nanti menunggu lama,”
“Kami ingin itu, Mak.”

Mak tak membalas berkata. Hanya mengangguk lemas dan bergegeas meninggalkan kamar kedua cucunya, bunga yang telah layu. Di tengah hujan, dengan punggung sedikit bungkuk, tangan yang kuat, wanginya yang digantikan oleh bau tanah, dan gigi yang menghitam meringis menahan tangis, Mak Lampir berusaha menghidupkan kembali kebunnya yang mati. Mak Lampir seolah mau, dan dapat membangkitkan yang mati.

Tapi Mak Lampir tak dapat menyembuhkan.

Segera dibelinya bibit bunga matahari, dan di tanam dalam rumahnya yang kini sunyi.

Mak Lampir sudah tak dapat mengolah minyak bunga yang membuatnya selalu harum,
Sudah tak dapat meminta Jenarsih untuk membeli bunga yang mewarnai rumah mereka,
Sudah tak dapat melihat warna selain hijau, hitam, dan coklat.

Mak Lampir, menangisi kebun yang dahulu ditinggalkannya.

Apa untuk mendapatkan sesuatu selalu harus ada yang dikorbankan? Dan kini kebun, kembang, ranting, dan rumah kaca menuntut balas?
Diam-diam Mak menyelinap ke kamar Jenarsih, diambilnya darah cucu kesayangannya dan ia gunakan untuk menggantikan wewangian yang kini tak dapat ia buat lagi—salah satu cara yang ia gunakan untuk mengingatkannya bahwa Jenarsih masih ada bersamanya.

Mak Lampir sudah tak tahu berapa lama waktu berlalu selama ia hanya memperhatikan bunga matahari milik Jenar dan Narsih. Bunga itu, entah karena apa, tak dapat tumbuh. Mungkin Mak telah kehilangan tangan hijau dan kemampuannya untuk berkebun. Mak kembali ke rumah dan melihat Jenar serta Narsih masih terlelap tak bergerak, lalu ia ambil lagi sebotol kecil darah untuk menjaga wangi tubuhnya.

Ia tahu itu akan membuatnya sakit, dan hal ini akan dapat membuatnya merasakan penderitaan Jenarsih. Wanita tua yang rambut putihnya memerah karena darah kedua cucunya itu terheran-heran mengapa ia tak merasakan sakit di manapun kecuali di hatinya. Pedih di hati saat melihat Jenarsih.

Dibelinya lagi lebih banyak tanah dan bibit bunga matahari. Mak Lampir harus menemukan ramuan yang tepat untuk menumbuhkan bunga matahari yang sempurna. Bunga matahari hasil tanamnya sendiri yang akan membuat Jenarsih baikan. Mak tidak membawa jam, apalagi kalender. Mak hanya mengandalkan matahari untuk menyirami bunga mataharinya sendirian di rumah kaca kecil kumal sambil memakan dedaunan kering.

Di tengah malam, Mak yang kuat menitikkan air mata pada ***-*** bunga matahari di hadapannya. Berbotol-botol kecil minyak wangi dari darah Jenar dan Narsih perlahan ia teteskan pada *** yang tak kunjung berbunga juga. Perlahan, perlahan, perlahan. Lalu lambat laun menyesuaikan dengan jadwal menyiram bunga matahari yang seharusnya.

Dari tanah kembali ke tanah,
Dari tanah untuk tanah,
Dari tanah kembali ke tanah.

Desir angin menggesekkan dedaunan, membuat Mak mendengar bisikan itu lagi dan terbangun.
Mak mengusap matanya yang seolah mencuat keluar dan melihat bunga-bunga matahari berkelopak merah menyembul, mekar dengan indah pada tiap potnya. Hati mak berbunga-bunga. Bunga matahari merah berbunga-bunga. Matahari Jenarsih berbunga-bunga.

Tangan kuat Mak segera menggapai dan mencengkram dua *** tanah liat dan ia berlari memasuki beranda rumah yang pintunya telah reot. Dari jauh sudah berteriak, “Jenar, Narsih, Jenarsih!!”
Mak seolah mendengar derap langkah dari arah berlawanan yang akan menyambutnya, tapi derap itu tak terdengar mendekat. Maka berteriaklah Mak sekali lagi,

“Mak bawa bungamu Jenarsih! Bunga matahari merah yang cantik!”

Lalu Mak dorong dengan pundaknya pintu kamar Jenarsih yang meringkik ringkih,
Mak terdiam memeluk *** bunga,
Jenarsih terlelap seperti terakhir kali Mak meninggalkannya,

Sebagai tulang belulang semata.

                                                            ///

Aku menutup laptop setelah menonton ulang episode Mak Lampir Penghuni Rumah Angker yang aku dapat dari internet—episode yang membawaku kembali ke masa kecil saat Misteri Gunung Merapi masih ditayangkan di teve, dan aku menonton dengan takut. Di tengah kengerianku, ibu malah menceritakan kisah tentang Mak Lampir dan bunga matahari yang diyakininya sebagai kisah nyata.

Sekarang episode sinetron itu tak lagi membuatku bergidik, malah tutur ibu yang masih membekas. Kisah itu seringkali terulang dalam alam pikirku, terutama saat melirik rumah reot tetangga di ujung jalan yang dipenuhi dengan bunga matahari merah.


Januari, 2017

Paris has traditionally been the city where inter­national designers – from Australia and England to Beirut and Japan – opt to unveil their collections. However, Karen Ruimy, who is behind the Kalmar label, chose the runways of Milan Fashion Week for her debut showcase in September.

The Morocco-born, London- based designer hosted an intimate al fresco event in a private palazzo to launch her holiday line of fine cotton and silk jumpsuits, breezy kaftans, long skirts, playsuits and off-the-shoulder tops in tropical prints.

Ruimy had a career in finance before moving into the arts – she owns a museum of photography in Marrakech – and has become increasingly involved in fashion and beauty, thanks to her personal interest in holistic therapies.

These are clothes, she explains, that marry luxury and wellness, and are the things she would wear when she wants quality time by herself. The fact that they are made in Italy, convinced her that Milan was the right place for her debut – where she showed alongside the likes of Gucci, Prada, Verscae and Marni.

On fashion calendars, Milan has conventionally been the place where the runways confirm the trends and themes hinted at ­earlier, in New York and London. However, this season, the Italian designers did not speak with one voice, making Milan Fashion Week all the more refreshing for it.

Often, there might be an era or style of design that dominates the runways during a particular season, but for spring/summer 2017 in Milan, there was a standout showing of techno sportswear and techno fabrics employed in updated classics such as coats and box-pleat skirts, or with references to north African and Native American themes.

The Italian designers sent looks that would appeal to everyone, from the haute bohemian and athletic woman, to the cool sophisticate and the art crowd, as well as – as in the case of Moschino – to the iPhone generation.

Only three seasons ago, Gucci’s creative director Alessandro Michele was lauded for his complicated maximalist styling. Yet in Milan, Gucci channelled a dreamlike vibe with Victoriana, denim, athletic apparel and oversized accessories, thrown together in delightful chaos, making it difficult to predict the direction Michele is taking Gucci in.

Currently he seems to be in a holding pattern, hovering at once over 1940s Hollywood glamour, 1970s flared pantsuits, and ruffled party dresses from the 1980s, in a cacophony of ­colours and fabrics.

The feeling of joyous madness continued at Dolce & Gabbana, where street dancers emerged from the audience to start the party in the designers’ tropical-themed show. The clothes used some of their familiar tropes, such as military jackets, corseted black-lace dresses miniskirts. New, however, were the baggy tapering trousers redolent of jodhpurs, and the lavish and detailed embellishment the designers used to sell their story.

Wanderlust dominated the moodboards at Roberto Cavalli – rich patterns, embroidery and patchworks inspired by Native Americans – and Etro with its ­tribal themes on kaftans, duster coats and Berber-style capes.

Giorgio Armani, Agnona Tod’s, Bottega Veneta and Salvatore Ferragamo – with its stylish twisted leather dresses and crisp athletic sportswear designed by newcomer Fulvio Rigoni – all answered the call of women who want stylish but undemanding clothes.

Marni would appeal to the art world for its graceful, pioneering ideas. The label’s finely pleated dresses displayed a life of their own, and its micro-printed dresses were gathered, folded and distorted to walk the line between stylish and quirky.

In contrast, the sportswear at MaxMara and Donatella Versace targeted the dynamic generation of athletic women, with sleek leggings, belted jackets, power suits and anoraks. Versace has made it clear that she thinks this is the only way forward. She may be right, but there’s always room for the myriad styles displayed at Milan Fashion Week in all our wardrobes.

It was feathers with everything at Prada. Silk pyjamas, boldly coloured and mixed checks, cardigans and wrap skirts with Velcro fasteners show Miuccia Prada reinventing the classics. Most glamorous was the series of evening dresses and pyjamas with jewelled embroidery and feathers, worn with kitten heels that married sporty straps with heaps of crystals. Prada’s must-have bag of the season is a bold clutch with a long strap fastener, that comes in a multitude of geometric and daisy patterns.

Versace

Over the past three seasons, Donatella Versace has been carving out a new image for her brand – a shift from the luxe glam of red carpets and superyachts, although the inhabitants of that world will be sure to buy into the new Versace vibe. Donatella’s girls are both glamorous and empowered. The sporty look is tough, urban and energetic, judging by the billowing ultra-thin high-tech nylon parkas and blousons, stirrup trousers and dresses (the shapes of which are manipulated by drawstrings). Dresses, skirts and tops are spliced at angles and studded together. Swishy pleated dresses and silky slit skirts gave energy when in movement, and were as soft as the look got.

Bottega Veneta

Model Gigi Hadid and veteran actress Lauren Hutton walked arm in arm down the Bottega Veneta runway, illustrating the breadth of the Italian maison in Tomas Maier’s hands. This was a double celebration of the Bottega’s 50th ­anniversary and Maier’s 15th as its creative director. Menswear and womenswear were combined, and the focus was on easy, elegant clothes in luxurious materials, such as ostrich, crocodile and lamb skin for coats; easy knits and cotton dresses worn with antique-style silver jewellery; and wedge heels. Fifteen handbag styles debuted along with 15 from the archive.

Fendi

Silvia Venturini’s new Kan handbag was a star turn at Milan. The stud-lock bag dotted with candy-coloured studs, rosette embroidery and floral ribbons couldn’t help but charm every woman in the audience. It was the perfect joyful accessory for Karl Lagerfeld’s feminine vintage romp through the wardrobe of Marie Antoinette, with sugary colours, bows, big apron skirts and crisp white embroidery juxtaposed with sporty footballer-stripe tops – effectively updating a historical look.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

"Just the tip. Just the tip." Initiation. Fourteen years old, fourteen year olds don't know the just the tip trick. It hurt like hell but the sound of his panting was well...worth it. Just the tip, then just the shaft. Just a lick, what a champ…the other half. Gigi was born, de-flowered then flourished. Naughty by nature. Fed and *** nourished. What a **** I was, what a ***** I am.…just slap my ***, grab me and pull me in. Choke me, bite me...squeeze, pull my hair, look me in the eyes, cuff me to a chair. Quiet ones you have to watch. I moan louder than I talk, nice rock in my hips....do me real good and I'll wobble when I walk. The club is my home, but not where I belong. Under my hijaab they can't see my laced thong. Taught to cater to the men and serve them martinis. Not dance ***** naked in heels and bikinis. Allahu Akbar. Don't let my family find out. Allahu Akbar. They'll **** me. Allahu Akbar. But if they do. Allahu Akbar. I'm still me.

My name is Neha,
Stage name GiGi however so complex, Stripper in silence,
And I'm strung out on ***.

Gigi,

life at home is
rough to say the least,
No it's hard
I know.
You didn't even tell anyone that you
graduated with honor roll
even through dealing with your mom.
You never got distracted
and I admired that.
That's a good thing..so why don't you want people
to be happy for you?

I gave you my phone number
at the last family reunion,

you never texted or called.
I try to reach out but
you push me away.
You insist on keeping your
problems to yourself..but I want you to burden me
if you feel like you would if you did vent to me.
I realize the moments that you let loose,
I see the real you.
The old you.
The you that never really left.
but when you realize it
You just start to close up again.

When Mr. M came to their house,
Little Gigi and her sister could hardly believe the fact-
That he was not their late papa
Such was the resemblance
Perfected by Mr. M to a T
Even the mole-thing on his cheek
Looked the same as their papa's.

You could hire Mr. M
To Metamorphose into any person you wanted
-A dead husband or a quadriplegic wife
(i.e. before they became dead or quadriplegic)
Or a celebrity beyond your reach
Or a college sweetheart-
Mr. M would transform into that person
With the right prosthetics and measurements.
(Besides, he had a highly Malleable and characterless body)
He'd learn their manners by watching videos.

Little Gigi would not run into his arms
Unless he called her the way her papa did
Mr. M cast a sidelong glance at the mother
At whose smile he regained confidence and cooed:
"Come to papa, my bouncing ball"
At which the girl shot herself into his arms
Like a cannonball.
Her sister followed her, although indifferently,
Her hands behind her back.
Little Gigi thanked her mother
For hiring the man.

Mr. M's service lasted for a period of three months
Or until the clients got over their feelings for the person.
Mr. M was sworn to secrecy
About his clientele and his 'lives'.
Nobody bothered about his true identity
So long as his name was reduced to a Mystery.
Mr. M never forgot the details of his 'lives',
Unlike how his ad had once claimed-
Which he later removed (and no one seemed to notice)
As he was taking a hot bath-
His mind wandered to a recent life.
Dressed up as a woman named Jessy Peter
Mr. M was ushered into the bedroom by his nervous client-
A bestubbled young man rejected by Ms. Peter.
He said he was drowning in a pool of jealousy
As she kept taking one lover after another.
Sweat ran down his face
As he took off Mr. M's skirt-
And with apprehensive fingers
Pulled down the *******.
His face shone brightly
At the perfection of the work
But his expression soon changed
To a blank faced melancholy
He said he was still heartbroken
As he could n't **** the real Jessy Peter
(Stubbly cheeks against Mr. M's fat shaved thighs
He whimpered through the night like a child).

Little Gigi said Mr. M smelled exactly like her papa.
Mr. M smiled, taking it as a compliment.
"...like boiled beef," she added.
Even after Little Gigi had left,
Her sister remained a little longer.
Then, slowly she placed her bottom-
On Mr. M's hairy thigh and sat there,
Her eyes fixed on the wall opposite
Mr. M, nonplussed, broke into a sweat
And thought, of all things he could do right now,
Stroking her hair was the only right thing.
The girl sat like that for a while and then
While leaving she said he was a nice person-
Unlike her late papa.

Inilah Proses Kematian dan Hancurnya Tubuh Kita!
Sesaat sebelum mati, Anda akan merasakan jantung berhenti berdetak, nafas tertahan dan badan bergetar. Anda merasa dingin ditelinga. Darah berubah menjadi asam dan tenggorokan berkontraksi.
0 Menit
Kematian secara medis terjadi ketika otak kehabisan supply oksigen.
1 Menit
Darah berubah warna dan otot kehilangan kontraksi, isi kantung kemih keluar tanpa izin.
3 Menit
Sel-sel otak tewas secara masal. Saat ini otak benar-benar berhenti berpikir.
4 – 5 Menit
Pupil mata membesar dan berselaput. Bola mata mengkerut karena kehilangan tekanan darah.
7 – 9 Menit
Penghubung ke otak mulai mati.
1 – 4 Jam
Rigor Mortis (fase dimana keseluruhan otot di tubuh menjadi kaku) membuat otot kaku dan rambut berdiri, kesannya rambut tetap tumbuh setelah mati.
4 – 6 Jam
Rigor Mortis Terus beraksi. Darah yang berkumpul lalu mati dan warna kulit menghitam.
6 Jam
Otot masih berkontraksi. Proses penghancuran, seperti efek alkohol masih berjalan.
8 Jam
Suhu tubuh langsung menurun drastis.
24 – 72 Jam
Isi perut membusuk oleh mikroba dan pankreas mulai mencerna dirinya sendiri.
36 – 48 Jam
Rigor Mortis berhenti, tubuh anda selentur penari balerina.
3 – 5 Hari
Pembusukan mengakibatkan luka skala besar, darah menetes keluar dari mulut dan hidung.
8 – 10 Hari
Warna tubuh berubah dari hijau ke merah sejalan dengan membusuknya darah.
Beberapa Minggu
Rambut, kuku dan gigi dengan mudahnya terlepas.
Satu Bulan
Kulit Anda mulai mencair.
Satu Tahun
Tidak ada lagi yang tersisa dari tubuh Anda. Anda yang sewaktu hidupnya cantik, gagah, ganteng, kaya dan berkuasa, sekarang hanyalah tumpukan tulang-belulang yang menyedihkan. Jadi, apa lagi yg mau disombongkan org sebenarnya????
BAGUS UNTUK DIRENUNGKAN.....
Kita tak membawa apapun juga saat kita meninggalkan dunia yg fana ini..

In this age of global uncertainty, clothes have become a kind of panacea for a growing number of consumers. Designers are responding to the political upheavals of the past year by injecting some much-needed humour into women’s wardrobes. Browns CEO Holli Rogers is already predicting that spring’s sartorial hit will be Rosie Assoulin’s smiley-face T-shirt. This cheery number, which reads "Thank you! Have a Nice Day!’" neatly sums up the jubilant mood of the coming season.

The logic goes that turning up the dial on the fun, the colourful and the crazy is the sartorial equivalent of Michelle Obama’s "when they go low, we go high" mantra. We may not be able to control the chaos of world events, but we still rule our own style.

It’s no coincidence that a cartoonish aesthetic, of the sort you’d find if you rifled through an eccentric child’s dressing-up box, was in plentiful supply on the spring/summer 2017 runways. Alessandro Michele’s army of Gucci geeks displayed growing swagger in garish get-ups that ran from fuzzy crayon-coloured furs featuring zebras to tiered, tinsel-y coats that rivalled Grandma’s Christmas tree.

It was a similar story at Dolce & Gabbana, where sumptuous eveningwear was loaded with pasta and pizza motifs, and drums became bags, while Marc Jacobs tore a page from a psychedelic colouring book, covering clothes with the childlike scrawl of the London illustrator Julie Verhoeven. Even ardent minimalists would have to admit that these playful looks have potent pick-me-up power.

For Anya Hindmarch – whose empire is built on feel-good fashion – all this frivolity is nothing new. "An ironic, lighter and more irreverent approach has always been my thing. People love beautiful objects and increasingly, they want to show their character – that’s the point of fashion," she says. "Customers today are more confident with their style. There aren’t so many rules. It’s about putting a sticker on a beautiful handbag and not being too precious about it."

What’s surprising is who is consuming this cartoonish style. Though there’s no real rhyme or reason, says Hindmarch, often it’s older clients who are investing in the maddest pieces – like her cuddly, googly-eyed Ghost backpack that has also been spotted on Gigi Hadid and Kendall Jenner.

The same is true of the customer for the Lebanese designer Mira Mikati’s emoji-embellished styles. Though her fans run from twenty to fiftysomethings, at a recent London pop-up one of Mikati’s most ardent buyers was an 87-year-old. "She tells me that whenever she wears my clothes people stop her on the street. They smile. They start conversations. She literally makes friends through what she wears."

Mikati began her career as a buyer, co-founding the upscale Beirut boutique Plum, before launching her own line some four seasons ago – largely out of frustration at the sameness of the mainstream collections. "I wanted to create something fun and colourful but easy to wear – that you can add to jeans and a white T-shirt, but that’s also a conversation point."

Her clothes, worn by Beyoncé and Rihanna, are certainly that: pink parrot-appliquéd trench coats, scribble-print hooded tops and dresses clad with a family of monsters who spell out her Peter Pan ethos in scrawled speech bubbles that read "Never Grow Up’" The antithesis of normcore, these designs take their cue from her children’s toy trunk and the Japanese pop art of Takashi Murakami – who returned the compliment by donning one of her patched bombers.

Mikati is clearly onto something. According to Roberta Benteler, who founded online fashion emporium Avenue 32 in 2011, it’s the cartoon aesthetic that’s really piquing women’s desire right now.

"Anything that looks like a child’s drawing or a toy sells incredibly well," she says. "Brands like Mira Mikati, Vivetta and Les Petits Joueurs inspire the impulse to buy because they’re so eye-catching. You have to have it now because there’s a sense you won’t find it anywhere else."

The exponential rise of street-style stars and the social-media machine that now propels the fashion industry also plays a part in the popularity of these playful looks.

"Designers are creating for the online world and customer," continues Benteler, who cites the Middle Eastern consumer as a big investor in these niche eccentric designs. "People find escapism in fashion and more than ever they need something to cheer them up. These are clothes that stand out on Instagram, and for designers that translates into sales."

In practical terms, in an effort to beat the warp speed of high-street copying, designers are differentiating themselves with increasingly intricate and artisanal styles that are harder to mimic. Just because these pieces have a childlike sensibility doesn’t mean they’re not beautifully crafted.

"My aim is create a handbag that you can keep as a design piece," explains the accessories designer Paula Cademartori. One of her most successful designs – the Petite Faye bag, which comes in a whole rainbow of configurations – takes more than 32 hours to create at her Italian studio. "Even if the styles are colourful and speak loudly, they’re still sophisticated," says Cademartori, whose brand was recently snapped up by the luxury goods group OTB. It can pay to be playful.

One man with a unique insight into the feel-good phenomenon is Marco de Vincenzo, who combines his longstanding role as leather goods head designer at Fendi with creating his own collection. "When we first created the Fendi monster accessories for bags we were simply playing around," he says of the charms that still loom large some three years on. "The most successful designs are created without pressure, through play."

His own-line debut bag features an animalistic paw. ‘It’s about creating something new and different for women to discover,’ he explains. "You buy something because you love it, not because you need it. Fashion is like a game – it has to excite."

When it comes to distilling this childlike abandon into your wardrobe, take cues from super style blogger Leandra Medine, who balances madcap pieces, such as her first collection of colourful footwear under her MR By Man Repeller label, with plainer, simpler ones. "It’s all about wearing your clothes with joy, and having fun, but not looking ridiculous," says Cademartori. "You don’t want to look like an actual cartoon."

It’s advice that chimes with that of Anya Hindmarch. "I love the idea of wearing a super-simple Comme des Garçons jacket and a white shirt with a really fun bag to mess it all up a bit." It’s a failsafe formula for dressing your way to happiness.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

A perfect Mommy, a perfect Daddy
A perfect daughter, a perfect life,
A perfect world to exist in, eclipsed by consummate sight.

She was my sun, a seraphic voice  
bathing me in warm light,
And he was my moon, watchful eyes
protecting me from the darkness of night.

Two halves of my whole heart, their blood flowing through
my spirited veins.
Two halves of my whole mind, their thoughts crashing through  
my synthetic brain.  

Perfection is their sweetest lie, proclaimed by selfish mouths uttering
vain whispers after bedtime.  
"I can't live without you. You can't leave me. I know we can survive this."
But survival is intangible against an affliction of the soul.  
  
Imperfection is my harshest truth, comprehended by grieving eyes seeing raw memories before sleep.  
"I can't live without you. You can't leave me. I know you can survive this."
But even a human's profound devotion can be turned away by their Creator,  
just as a pleading child can be deserted by their mother and father.  

And that is the largest betrayal of them all.  

But to remain, to endure against hate's control, against fate, would be an immediate death.  
To try and withstand their sickness and deterioration would be suicide.  

And I have realized that I do not want to die.  

Loss is my most unbearable pain, undeniably clouded by her beautiful smile and his comforting resemblance.

She used to sing her child to sleep, and now, she is singing to her one last time. At the door, he is watching and keeping them both safe.  

They will both leave and never come back, but the memories will remain. The happiness will always be there for recollection.

But for now, it is time to sleep and forget.

She caresses her child's hair and kisses her forehead lovingly, getting up and walking to join him at the doorway.  

The silhouettes of their mournful faces seem like a cryptic dream.  

"Goodnight, Gigi. We love you very much."
"Mom? Dad?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I can live without you. You can leave me. I know I can survive this."
*"We know."

Sebab hari tak beraut mentari
Sinar malam yang di curi teknologi
Senyum anak cucu tanpa gigi

Mari pukul tifa deng menari..
Biarpun tanah adat sudah jadi kali
hutan ruba kulit
laut tinggal ari-ari

mari pukul tifa deng manari
biarpun suku tinggal hitung jari

id,02/april/2014, tegalrejo, bantul

Sebab hari tak beraut mentari
Sinar malam yang di curi teknologi
Senyum anak cucu tanpa gigi

Mari pukul tifa deng menari..
Biarpun tanah adat su jadi kali
hutan ruba kulit
laut tinggal ari-ari

mari pukul tifa deng manari....
biarpun suku tinggal hitung jari
di bunuh tamu: dari pulau mati
id,02/april/2014, tegalrejo, bantul

Queer, genderqueer, non-binary, non-hetero, pan, omni, gay, pagan, quaker.
whatever.

Labels may make people more easily digestable, but I don't want to be devoured by your limited paradigm.

I don't want your gut to strip me of my intricacies and **** them out only to be flushed away.

If you are trying to engulf me and break me down you will surely *****.

I will make sure of it.

My name is Gian, and
My name is Gigi,
and I hope that even that
is hard for you to keep down.

Pada suatu hari yang kejam.
Budi mau ke sekolah.
Ganti baju, minum susu, tidak lupa gosok gigi.
“Buk, Budi berangkat dulu ya.”

Ibu pertiwi tidak menjawab.
Budi melongok ke dapur lalu melihat ibu pertiwi.
Tampangnya kusut, pakaiannya berantakan dan matanya sembab.
Budi marah.
Sosok bangsat macam mana yang telah membuat ibu pertiwi sedih !
Di mana bapak pertiwi? Ibu pertiwi sudah jadi janda dan masih dicabuli. Memang anjing !

Jadi siapa yang telah membuat ibu pertiwi sedih?
Apakah si bangsat itu adalah mereka?
Yang menanam beton raksasa dan mengambil semua dengan paksa?

Atau apakah si bangsat itu adalah kalian?
Yang menumpang dan mengotori air udara tanah, menggusur alam atas nama pembangunan?

Atau apakah si bangsat itu adalah dia ?
Yang berjalan angkuh dan tamak. Sesekali mencari peluang, sumber daya mana lagi yang bisa di sikat ?
Babat terus tambang, sekalian laut, hutan, juga hewan!

Atau apakah si bangsat itu adalah saya ?
Bersembunyi di balik hati nurani yang katanya peduli, katanya cinta bumi, saya adalah omong kosong!
Saya tidak benar-benar cinta. Jijik betul merasa ibu pertiwi sungguh berarti, ikut menjerit ketika ia ternodai, mana yang lebih munafik apakah diri saya atau aksi ?

Pada suatu hari yang kejam,
Budi tidak berangkat ke sekolah.
Akal sehat budi meronta ingin lari selamatkan diri bersama ibu pertiwi.
Anak cicit Adam dan Hawa terlalu goblok dan jahat.
Manusia terlalu serakah dan merasa berkuasa.
Lihat itu,
Asap hitam pekat bergerak mendekat.
Mampus kau! Ibu pertiwi sudah sekarat!

Pada suatu hari yang kejam,
malam datang dan manusia mulai buta.
Ibu pertiwi gelap gulita, budi merangkak tanpa arah.
Apa perlu listrik untuk buka mata?
Atau cukup hanya sepercik bara?
Budi bingung. Ibu pertiwi sedih. Bapak pertiwi bodo amat.

Au, norii/Aïe les nuages/Ay, Las Nubes/Ouch the Clouds

et maintenant où sont les nuages blancs
qui ne savent pas rêver
qui ne peuvent pas voler, sans le vent du nord,
sans les coeurs des hommes.
(7.08. 2016)

there is hope here            the morning sun
leaves loaves of warm light on the doorstep

after he left - leaving a letter –
she realised the room had no windows

the light claimed a green pear
as she drank sweet tea

at 10.09 she was required
to generate her own light:

*in Café Gigi she generated her own light

I watched “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” last night - we’re going to be reading Truman Capote’s book after the break and I wanted to start thinking about it. The movie rewrites Truman Capote’s story, turning it into a romcom, completely eliminating the book's gay themes. I’d seen ‘Breakfast’ before, but now I’m a little older, and as a single woman, I can better appreciate it. I’m looking forward to studying its socio-****** themes. These are some first thoughts.

Let’s take the opening of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” The images are iconic and some of the most widely repeated in pop-culture today (Hello, ubiquitous dorm room decor), but they’re never used in a way consistent with their function in the film. Instead of seeing a horribly depressed girl who has nothing left in her life but pure escapism, people see a beautiful woman with apparent access to luxury.

When “Breakfast” came out (in 1961) there was a sense, within the press and wider public, that even a neutered version of Holly Golightly represented a cinematic moral nadir that posed a threat to society. Whether Holly was a “moral character” was up for debate in countless reviews of the film. Today, this seems absurd.

Today, Holly is seen as an aspirational figure. With her opera gloves, her intricate updo, pearls and Givenchy little black dress, she looks like someone who belongs at Tiffany’s (of course, the casting the euro-elegant Audrey Hepburn didn’t hurt). Truman Capote wanted Marilyn Monroe as Holly - that would have been a very different movie.

Watching the film, I was struck with how contemporary Holly felt. She seems so familiar - so similar to the countless imitations we’ve seen since. People watching the movie for the first time today may be underwhelmed, but Holly seems so contemporary now, because she was so ahead of the curve back then (just over 60 years ago).

If you look at the popular romantic comedies that surrounded ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, like “Pillow talk,’ ‘Gigi,’ and ‘Giget’ - their leading ladies were nothing like Holly. Being a heroine in those films meant you strived for marriage, you saved yourself for your one true love and, as a woman, you avoided certain subjects altogether. They imply happiness only comes from following a certain good girl ethos.

An example of what could happen to a girl, if she strayed from that path, was shown in Elia Kazan’s ‘Splendor in the Grass’ which also came out in ‘61. Its theme is the consequences of ****** repression, and it outlines a specific cinematic binary. There are good girls and bad girls. The bad girls were usually presented as sad and mentally unstable - and they paid for their sins in the end - usually by dying by some karmic punishment (car wrecks usually).

Holly sits somewhere in between good and bad, complicating the cinematic binary. Because Audrey’s elegance plays her as classy, warm and accessible, she doesn’t come across as a dangerous wild child - although she makes all of the bad girl choices - like partying, drinking and having ***.

For women who grew up in the repressive 1950s, Holly represented a new path forward. Holly lived on her own, she didn’t crave marriage above all else, she didn’t want to live in a cage, and she managed to have a good time without being victimized or doomed. Holly was noticeably different. The pill came out in May of 1960 (one of the watershed events in human history). Holly was Hollywood's first post-pill heroine, representing the ****** revolution before Betty Friedan’s ‘Feminine Mystique’.

Is Gigi Hadid a gee, hottie?

ANG'O MOMIYO PINY MABOR? Agoyo erokamano Ne Nyasaye mosewara kuom tuoche,dhier kod masira.Kendo daher mar goyo erokamano gi chunya duto ne ji duto mosebedo ka konya kendo tala e yore mag rieko gi ngima.Ndikoni en achiel kuom weche masetemo mondo andik ne joherana kendo ji duto ma puonjore yore ngima kowuok kuom weche ma andiko . Nitiere ndalo moro mane asandora malit bang' akweda modhuro ,kendo ndalo mang'eny asetemo wuok kuom mibadhi gi masira go. Omiyo ne aneno kit dhano kane chandruok omako chunya,chandruok mar manyo rieko.Ji mangeny ne oweya kagiwacho ni gik matimo ok kare,ji matin ahinya emane obedo piny mondo owinj gimane chando chunya.Jogo duto agoyonegi erokamano. Omiyo kane andiko gigi chunya ne gombo mondo ji duto oyud rieko kawuok gi gik ma awacho gi. Ji mang'eny temo mondo oyud gik piny gi yore ma ok ber,an agoyo erokamano ne ruodha kuom taya e ler ka adimbora mondo abed ng'ato ma an kawuono. Andiko wechegi mondo uyud ler kowuok kuom puonjo madieri.Piny ka ok nyal res gi muma inyalo rese gi thum gi ndiko.Omiyo akao kinde mondo andik weche maneno ,ka pogo oganda e pinyka. An ajaote.Kik igoya lero nikech apogora gi mibadhi gi miriambo.Ruaka uru e chunyu,kendo ukao kinde uwinj weche matemo pimo. Ne Ji duto marito ndiko ma asebedo kandiko ndalo mane apondo e **** dhano,beduru mana gi kwe nikech chunya nikodu machiegni,aherou. -Synopsia mar Piny Mabor,Budding Dirt. "As an artist, I feel that we must try many things - but above all, we must dare to fail. You must have the courage to be bad - to be willing to risk everything to really express it all."-Budding Dirt My mind is a sea of monarch butterflies. That flutter, all hella haphazard and disordered. As delicate as rice paper. And impatient. No matter how I chase them. I cannot catch them. Because while I’m clomping through the brush, swinging a net and crushing the seedlings, they are dancing from flower to flower, unperturbed by my pursuit. Flittering in the sun like the skittish memory of a dream in the light of day'-Budding Dirt

I say why can't I be like her,
a supermodel...
like Gigi Hadid,
He says she's hot,
his words say,
I am pretty,
just pretty,
Gigi, living the life, dancing, walking the runway, dating Zayn,
but what do I get,
I get words to put in my head,
you're not hot,
she's hot, fuckable
Everything a guy wants,
I'm the second choice to every situation,
All he says when I say her name is...
she's hot,
Boys will be boys they say,
but I want a man.

Jonathan Saunders, the newly appointed presumptive heir to DVF, paid homage to the brand's heritage while showcasing his own vision during an intimate presentation Sunday at New York Fashion Week.

The Scottish designer took the reins as DVF's chief creative officer in May, but made it clear he's not necessarily filling Diane von Furstenberg's iconic shoes.

"It's just different shoes, you know? It's not like I'm replacing her in any way. It's just a different chapter for the company," Saunders said while insisting von Furstenberg is still very much the cornerstone of the brand.

Von Furstenberg, a Fashion Week staple, was not on hand for Saunders' debut presentation at a sparse industrial space in the Manhattan's Meatpacking District.

The collection played with bold colors, patterns and mixed textures.

Romantic florals paired with playful polka dots, and metallic dresses were adorned with fur wraps.

"I wanted the collection to be kind of this melting ***," Saunders explained. "Eclectic mixtures of different prints from different places and times brought together in one collection. I thought that was kind of an exciting way to start."

The signature wrap dress appeared throughout with fresh silhouettes and asymmetrical hemlines, including a structured kimono, a silky romper and a color-blocked scarf dress.

Sometimes the wrap was simply implied through cuts and movement on plunging blouses and sequined, layered frocks.

"It's more about taking it not so literally and just trying to transfer into a product that feels considered and modern and developed. A lot of the bias-cut dresses still have that same sense of ease, but they are pushing things forward," said Saunders.

Von Furstenberg is known for splashy fashion shows featuring celebrity-driven social media buzz. Last season's event included It Girls Kendall Jenner, Gigi Hadid, Karlie Kloss and Irina Shayk.

But according to CEO Paolo Riva, priorities have shifted.

"I think that the fashion show is trying to cover too many things: speaking to press, inviting celebrities, opinion leaders, bloggers and friends, and now see-now, buy-now. It's too much for one moment and because this is the first collection from Jonathan, this is a moment where we really wanted to have the opportunity to leave the noise out," said Riva.

Saunders' back-to-basics approach included one-on-one meetings with journalists, a simple display of clothes on racks with six models perched in the background.

"I think at the end of the day the customer is interested in clothes and I'm hoping we're entering into a chapter where all of the nonsense doesn't matter as much as having something that you just feel fabulous in," he said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses

It's been three years since you left,
three years of not hearing you in the kitchen on Sunday mornings,
three years of not seeing you sitting on a bed while you fold clothes,
three years of blowing out candles on a birthday cake without you around.

You left.
I can't make it any simpler than that.

It's been three years since I left, too.
You took something with you - a part of me that I didn't realize I had.
Three years of laying in bed and staring at a wall,
three years of going to therapy and speaking to a woman who can't be you.

You left.
It can't be more complicated than that.

Three years is a long time, did you know?
It's a long time without you,
I still wake up in the morning and think you're here.

Maybe it's because you left in the middle of the night, right before I fell asleep. You left in the most painful way - speaking in my ear, holding me.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Gigi.

You kept gripping my arm while you cried. It hurt and I'm not speaking about my arm.
Something within - that part of me you took.

You ripped it from me and took it with you into the night,
I want it back, please. That part of me was the
Me that loved you.

It was the better part of me,
the Me that wanted to breathe.

I don't want to breathe anymore.

Dear Basketball,

Why am I not six foot six.

If I could reach just a little higher,
I would score you with ease.

We’d make a winning team.

You’d be my world
spinning on the tip of my finger.
We’d shoot for the moon
night-in and night-out,
with no fear of falling
because your gravity
is the force that
grounds me.

We’d have a bounce to our step:
you striking the pavement
like a war drum and me
walking on air
with my head in the clouds
of Southern California.

We'd turn soaring
over expectations
into a high art.

Imagine this: the first
sub-six-foot Asian minority
in the NBA
wins the MVP!

And they would pay us!  
Never mind the money.
We'll earn a wealth of respect.
We'll command conundrums.
Coaches across the league would
call us a problem and
scratch their heads drawing
up defensive formulas on white boards
named after us.

I realize that’s a long shot.
I'm taking it.

You won’t even see me flinch

even if you did hit me
between the eyes
and broke my nose
on that inbound play,
I’d grin
in the face of the opponent

like how my four-year-old girl
handled pneumonia in a hospital bed,
I will emerge from any cold spell
with child-like hope
and a Gigi-like game face,
jaws jutting out

Because adversity
is what brings out greatness
and struggle
is what proves you
are still alive.

I could be trailing
by 20 for an entire game

I could have zero points,
but no doubts
that the next shot is going in.

I'm taking it.

Even if it means
fading away
into the darkness
over multiple hands
outstretched with
our goal that is the basket
nowhere to be seen

I'd throw my hopes and fears
into the wind for you,
regardless of what the defense throws back.

If basketball is a religion,
then I am a devout practitioner,
putting up prayers from behind the arc

And when things don't bounce our way,
I won't blame you.

Defeat reveals what you're
fundamentally made of,
so I will work on my form:
fingers along your grooves,
toes pointed ahead,
follow through.

I will work on my endurance:
hustle beats skill any day

I will work on passing you
and the wisdom you bring
to the next generation,
so they can score whatever it is
they dream

I will work to give my daughter
the best possible shot

I will lead by example.

Championships come and go:
what we are working towards
will last forever

And guess what, Basketball?
I will still be far from six foot six,
making it very hard to play you well.

That’s no excuse.
That just means I will practice dribbling low
to the ground and moving
like a shadow beneath their feet.

No one can guard
what they can't see coming:
we'll fly under the radar.

I'd give you the best of me
to let you bring out
the beast in me:
an apex predator
with a forked tongue
through bared fangs
and black skin thick as
battle armor

No amount of hisses and boos
can block our shot.

We'd go the distance,
crossing over
into the unknown and
through whatever
physical and emotional
contact comes next

I will hit the floor for you,
rise up
and sink my free throws
on a limp.

If I needed 81 points
to win you over,
I’d bring back each one
in an autographed bucket,
even if it takes 82 games to do it.

We could spend a long,
loosing season together,
and I would still wake up at 4 a.m.
to see you
in an empty gym,
while dawn turns the sky
from purple into gold.  

I’d savor every drop
of sweat the comes from
running back and forth
for miles in your shoes
between your two bottomless baskets.

I don't care how tall I am.
We are chasing the footsteps of
immortal giants,
if only to write our own legends
that will never die.

Even if I had just 24 seconds
to do it,
I’d spend every last one
believing in miracles.

It’s a long shot,
but together,
we can’t miss.

Long Live You,
Your Number One Fan

to be
or maybe just
trying to be

to be or not
or yes
or like you were without truly being

well
let it be...

to get in
or sometimes out
of your own mind
as if you would not even care about exuberance or sorrow

naught or infinity
nothingness
endless

to lay/to stand
faling into a slumber is like an upside-down waking
one sleep with many dreams inside

a single step more or one less
in open space or hidden path
not knowing everything
nor nothing knowing about
yourself

down here all seems to be
strength/weakness/happiness
falls or rebounds

to be almost at all
or only to-cease-a-little-bit-to-be

light/abyss

finally
all seems not to be anything than always the same shamelesss
swollen from so much foolish tension/internal/but eternal/rather
flat/mat/fat/and mostly incorrigible
                                                    ­       "This is the question"

by Gigi Caciuleanu, from "Miroirs"

i had a nightmare
two nights ago

that i was running some
kind of winter errand
and had my family
and friends behind me

when at the top of the sagging
brown stairs before the darkly
scratched door i encountered
an unexpected sight

holly
spinning and twirling
in a black and white
polyester dress

curls bouncing as
she danced
she sang and
pounced on me

i tried to pull the
red scarf on my
head over my face
but it was too late

she was after me with
an aggressive laying on
of hands and smearing a
full bottle of bubblegum
scented anointing oil all
over my face and clothes

i was hoping for
some kind of backup
but my friends were gone
like we were fourteen again
and it was my job to
make a pastoral request
or deal with the questions
except this time they were
somewhere further away
than just behind me

and she was pulling
on me and my parents
were pushing me
further into the room

which was lined with
a dozen folding tables
and a single woman
at each one

gigi was there
and judith and a
lot of other people
whose faces i can't
recall and they were
all carrying on a
great deal and as
soon as they saw me

they all converged
on me asking how i
had been and what
i had been doing and
trying to make me
dance and praying
and shouting and
singing and hollering
in tongues and
my parents were
insisting this was
what i really needed

and i couldn't breathe
the side door was
cracked open car
outside but the more
i fought to get away
the more they held
me down i could smell
the cold winter air and
was so close and yet
so far from escape

i had a nightmare
two nights ago

and you might
call it a dream but
i call it a nightmare
because i woke up
gasping for air and
twisting in my sheets.

lesson one

your body belongs to the world. men are aloud to stare, to call from cars as red as your cheeks. other women are allowed to judge you, whisper at you behind your back. because in our world, it's way too common for a woman to be forced against each other, instead of together. it would be better if we were a team, not a country in the midst of a civil war. but ******* happens.

lesson two

you cannot be fat. if your legs are trunks and your hair is leaves, then you must be cut down. starve yourself down to a neutral frame, a canvas so to speak. then paint on ******* like mountains. teeth as white as snow. hair as blonde as sand. then you'll be the perfect landscape. the perfect girl.
that's all that matters.

lesson three

shave! take the razor and trim your gardens, for god's sake girl! no one will want you if you look like an overgrown yard that someone abandoned years ago. it's disgusting for one. no one wants to see something natural on a woman. at least, not men.

lesson four

men have standards that they've been shown. be thick-lipped, like kylie. be bootylicious like beyoncè. be thin like gigi.
be perfect.

lesson five

everything i ever learned was a lie.

Tears sting my eyes when I read the words.

They never loved you. If they did, they wouldn't have hurt you.

That's not true. Sometimes the people we love hurt us and they don't mean to, deep down.

Sometimes the people we love yell at us when they're angry and sometimes they leave in the middle of the night.

They still love me even if they don't apologize afterwards or return in the morning.

Tears sting my eyes when I remember the words.
They are the same people that said this:

We are so proud of you, Gigi. You will always be our little girl. We love you so much.

The same mouth that yelled at me when he wanted me to leave him alone. The same eyes that cried heavy tears into my shoulder when she left.

It doesn't matter if they're the same. Either way, they love(d) me.

In the end, everyone forgets.

There's a distant memory of me sitting in the passenger seat of a car -
my mom is driving and it's nighttime.
I'm very little.

Outside, it's pitch black except for a few sparse city lights in the distance and the never-ending stars above. In front of us, there is only a dark road.

I start crying all of a sudden. Heavy tears make me shake and it's as if there's a violent wave racking my small body from side to side, forcing me to drown.

"Gigi? What's wrong?"

I cry harder. She wants to know why I'm sad, of course she does. It's just making my chest hurt because I can't say it. I don't know how. Please, don't make me say it.

"Sweetheart..."

She rubs my arm and I look out the window, wiping away my truths. I look into that void and see it as clear as the slash of a blade.

"You're going to be dead one day."

In the end, everyone forgets.
It's the only thing I can hold onto in this life, even if it slips through my fingers and leaves nothing behind.

It's the only thing I've ever known and ever will be.