I used to be a heavy coffee drinker. I would actually drink 4-5 cups a day, and they're always sweet and strong. I didn't use milk, because milk had always made me ill, even back when my lactose intolerance wasn't as bad as now. So, I used non-dairy creamer instead. Artificial. Good.
But then I stopped when my heartbeats were so mad in the afternoon after 2 or 3 cups, I thought my heart would burst. And my hands were starting to shake weirdly. That was in 2007. I didn't drink coffee after that. Maybe a sip or two if I was curious with all the sophisticated mixtures that the fancy cafes or coffee shops had from friends who were drinking them, but no more than that. I didn't even eat anything coffee-flavoured anymore. Instead, I drank tea. So much tea.
I met my boyfriend in 2013 and he drinks coffee regularly. And he likes Indonesian coffee (I mean, who doesn't?). So, he's more than excited when I visited and brought him two big bags of good Indonesian coffee. Sometimes, there would be a tiny bit of leftover from the coffee that my boyfriend made (or I made for him), and not wanting to waste good coffee, I would make a tiny cup for myself from the leftover. It was strange for my stomach at first, but then I got into the habit of sharing a pot with my boyfriend. Even when we ran out of Indonesian coffee and were forced to buy a local brand, I would still drink it together with him.
And now I'm back in Indonesia. Plenty of good coffee around with reasonable prices (don't try buying Indonesian coffee in Holland. It's ridiculous). So, now I have a new habit: making one tiny cup of coffee a day. It's not the coffee; it's the memory of sharing it.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Friday, February 6, 2015
Literary hangover
Just a quick note: I just finished The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell. This is not a review of the book, as I am not articulated enough to write what I feel about it. However, if you are looking for a review, I will recommend one from The NewYorker. It mirrors what I feel (although it hardly matters what I think about this novel).
What I want to write about is that dreadful feeling after I have finished reading a book, particularly a fat one, like this novel. It does feel like a bad hangover, after pints and pints and pints of beer. And cigarettes. It was nice at the pub, but when you woke up on your bed, your head wanted to explode. It is a bit similar with reading a novel, I found. The journey from page 1 to page end is (was) exciting, but after I closed the back cover, I felt something was lost. Luckily, I don't have a severe headache after I finish reading. But, there's that similar feeling of emptiness.
I don't actually know why I often, if not all the time, feel like this. I guess I subconsciously created some sort of attachment with the story, characters and the process of reading when I started. And when the book ends, the attachment is severed. And maybe, that's why I feel a bit lost and empty. After all, reading means you are investing your time and mind in one particular thing for a certain period of time.
To end this short ramble, I will recommend this book, because regardless of what the review says (see above), David Mitchell is still an amazing storyteller.
What I want to write about is that dreadful feeling after I have finished reading a book, particularly a fat one, like this novel. It does feel like a bad hangover, after pints and pints and pints of beer. And cigarettes. It was nice at the pub, but when you woke up on your bed, your head wanted to explode. It is a bit similar with reading a novel, I found. The journey from page 1 to page end is (was) exciting, but after I closed the back cover, I felt something was lost. Luckily, I don't have a severe headache after I finish reading. But, there's that similar feeling of emptiness.
I don't actually know why I often, if not all the time, feel like this. I guess I subconsciously created some sort of attachment with the story, characters and the process of reading when I started. And when the book ends, the attachment is severed. And maybe, that's why I feel a bit lost and empty. After all, reading means you are investing your time and mind in one particular thing for a certain period of time.
To end this short ramble, I will recommend this book, because regardless of what the review says (see above), David Mitchell is still an amazing storyteller.
Friday, December 12, 2014
Dream Journal--05
A short one, this time. I haven't been able to sleep soundly for a couple of weeks now. Maybe my apparently-flat-now pillow contributes to that, or maybe it's because now it's officially winter. Short days and long nights. Kinda depressing when you feel lethargic all the time. Anyway, I woke up around 7 am and still felt really tired and the sky was still dark, I went back to sleep. And I had a strange dream.
The dream:
I was with my family. I couldn't recognise the house/building we were all in, but it seemed familiar, like a hotel at a holiday-destination somewhere. I felt incredible pain on/in one of my wisdom teeth: the left down one. I felt it was wobbly and I told my mum that there's something wrong with my tooth. I said, "I think the seal is broken, again. It feels loose." I touched my tooth and there's this sticky thing stuck to it, as if placing the tooth together.
The sticky thing started triggering my gagging reflex, so I tried to pull it out of my mouth. And I did, slowly, and every time I pulled a piece of it out, I felt the amazing pain in my tooth. When the last bit of the sticky thing was out, my gum was bleeding. A lot. I almost choked on my own blood. And to make things worse, I spat out a hard thing and I realised it was half of my wisdom tooth (that was being held together by the sticky stuff).
The tooth looked like a fossilied tooth from a dead dinosaur that you would see in any museum displaying fossils. It got some hair on it, though. And blood. Practically one of the grossest things I've seen in my dream. All that time, my gum was throbbing with pain and I remembered my mum was saying that seeing me in pain physically hurt her too. She would never say that in real life, of course.
I woke up after I spat the last bit of my tooth out. And of course I immediately touched the said wisdom tooth. It was fine.
The dream:
I was with my family. I couldn't recognise the house/building we were all in, but it seemed familiar, like a hotel at a holiday-destination somewhere. I felt incredible pain on/in one of my wisdom teeth: the left down one. I felt it was wobbly and I told my mum that there's something wrong with my tooth. I said, "I think the seal is broken, again. It feels loose." I touched my tooth and there's this sticky thing stuck to it, as if placing the tooth together.
The sticky thing started triggering my gagging reflex, so I tried to pull it out of my mouth. And I did, slowly, and every time I pulled a piece of it out, I felt the amazing pain in my tooth. When the last bit of the sticky thing was out, my gum was bleeding. A lot. I almost choked on my own blood. And to make things worse, I spat out a hard thing and I realised it was half of my wisdom tooth (that was being held together by the sticky stuff).
The tooth looked like a fossilied tooth from a dead dinosaur that you would see in any museum displaying fossils. It got some hair on it, though. And blood. Practically one of the grossest things I've seen in my dream. All that time, my gum was throbbing with pain and I remembered my mum was saying that seeing me in pain physically hurt her too. She would never say that in real life, of course.
I woke up after I spat the last bit of my tooth out. And of course I immediately touched the said wisdom tooth. It was fine.
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