The small world phenomenon (also known as the small world effect) is the hypothesis that everyone in the world can be reached through a short chain of social acquaintances.

The concept gave rise to the famous phrase six degrees of separation* after a 1967 small world experiment by social psychologist Stanley Milgram; which suggested that two random US citizens were connected on average by a chain of six acquaintances.
*Karinthy, a Hungarian writer, was actually the first proponent of this concept in his 1929 short story “Chains”.

So, why am I talking about these things out of nowhere? Here is the reason why:

It was early in the morning. The office was still empty. I sat on my desk for a while, facing my laptop, with a cup of coffee in my hand. Without knowing the exact reason why, suddenly my mind wandered to B–a talented rock guitarist who left the famous rock band G*** in 1995 and flew to the US. I wonder what he’s been up to these days.

So, I went ‘googling’ and typed his name on the search box. The search results came out. The first line was an old piece about his performance in Dago Tea House. But it was the second line that surprised me the most.

The result on the second line was originated from an Indonesian website gitaris.com, contained this posting from a Canadian guy named Ian MacNeil:

“Hello, I’m a guitarist from Toronto, Canada. My name is Ian MacNeil. I am a good friend of ABS. I am trying to find B. If you know how to locate B, he can send me email. My email address is ****@hotmail.com. Thank you. Landau rules!”

I was stunned for a few minutes, and then decided to drop this guy an email–asked him if he had found B (remembering that he posted this message on February 2006).

I was surprised when the next morning, I found his reply in my mailbox. Ian said that he hadn’t found B; he was hoping that I could help him. Ian is a guitarist himself, he was a close friend of B back in the US, and after B came back to Indonesia, he lost contact with him. Apparently, B has somehow changed his email address without informing Ian about it.

Ian asked me if I knew B’s new email address, so he could drop him a message. I told him I have no clue about B’s new email address, however, I have told B that Ian was looking for him.

About an hour after that, Ian dropped me another email:

“Hi Hanny! I just finished speaking to B!!! Thank you so much for getting the information to me! He is a great guy! I’m a crazy Canadian guitar player too! B is my gear brother!!! I haven’t spoken to him for over 5 years! This is really great! Thanks again :)”

I was speechless. This shit really happened? It was just amazing to be a part of such a cool reunion! And the most incredible thing is: over a billion surfers on the net, I am the one who found Ian’s message—and, coincidentally, I know the guy he’s looking for!

Came to think about it, probably there is no such thing as coincidence…

IMG. http://www.musicroom.com/images/catalogue/fullsize/EG20R.jpg

A while back, everybody saw you as if you were a rock star of some sort.

It seemed like you have everything a guy could ever wanted: popularity, fancy car, wealthy parents, handsome face, so-damn-cool attitude, the guts to rebel all kinds of rules, an amazing collection of hot chicks … the list was just endless. All boys were crazy about being your sidekicks and all girls were dying to be your lover.

But then … there were times when the fame suddenly faded away. It was like someone had scattered a magic powder and—puff!; everything was gone in less than a sec. Before you could even digest what have happened, the lights went out, the curtain closed, and you were forced to get off the stage.

Then came along your turn to stare at those who were once “freaks” to you with envy. They just … took over everything that once was yours. From that moment on, they were the ones who reigned the stage.
You were out. You were so last year.

This is life, bro. It’s unbelievably fair in many ways that we couldn’t comprehend. Just face it.
Your game is so over.
Ours have just begun.

IMG. http://www.lizabotkin.com/night/TRAFFIC.jpg

(1). Why have I never dreamt of you in my sleep? Perhaps it’s because you’re too gorgeous to be seen in a dream. Or perhaps, I just need to think of you more often. Or … hey, listen to this (!): the most possible reason is that God prevents me from dreaming of you, because God knows, once I dreamed about you, I would never want to wake up again…

(2). On a night like this, I just love to think of you. It warmth my soul … just by knowing that you’re breathing the same air somewhere out there. I love to go out at night and glancing at the stars that are twinkling adorably. It’s sad that my lovely star is out of sight. It’s too far to be seen. You’re so lucky, for you can see my lovely star everytime you’re standing in front of a mirror! ;p

(3). Have you ever felt like your life is too hectic and your head is too noisy, and everyone seems too busy? Why, the world have become a better place for me because as things went too hectic, too noisy, or too busy, I always have a silent place inside of me, a sanctuary. Deep down inside my heart, there’s this feeling … a kind of lonely feeling that comforts me instead of making me feel low. A silent place where I could find myself who’s loving you. Just us, as I always love it.

(4). Alone, I’m dreaming of those days we’ll spend together … With you by my side, it would be impossible for me to dream of anything else; because I would never want to sleep again. The moment would be too precious, I wouldn’t want to close my eyes. I’d be too afraid that if I closed my eyes, the next time I opened it, the moment has gone. Miss you!

Saya kangen waktu-waktu yang saya habiskan untuk menulis surat-surat pendek itu. Saya kangen menghitung-hitung waktu dan merancang strategi pengiriman agar surat-surat pendek itu akan tepat terbaca begitu kamu bangun tidur besok pagi.

Ini di luar akal sehat saya, tapi saya cuma ingin bilang: “Damn, I miss you”.

IMG. http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y123/stella14/Auxiliary/DarkAlleyBrianDoubek.jpg

E: Hey, Poet! What’s up with those postings?
H: Nothing. Probably I’m going insane… hehehe ;p
E: Probably it’s just your subconscious that has finally found its courage to speak up.
H: Wow. Look who’s talking. And you call me a poet?!!
E: You tell me :p
Hey, remember, one day, a few years ago, we promised to each other? That though we can’t resist growing up, we will never become an adult?
H: Uh-huh.
E: Well, I broke mine. I think I have become an adult. That’s why it’s getting more and more difficult for me to understand the situation you put yourself into.
H: Because it’s easier?
E: What’s easier?
H: Being an adult.
E: Hmm, yeah, I guess. You simply give up hopes and being numb. You don’t give a damn.
H: That sounds OK to me.
E: Being you is more than OK. Just take your time, gurl. I envy you.
H: Yeah, right.
E: No, seriously. It’s nice to know that you have kept your promise…
Uhm, anyway, he’s OK.
H: What?
E: That bad dream of yours? Just want to tell you that he’s OK ;p
H: Cool 🙂
E: Well, what about you? Are you OK?
H: Hmm, I’m sleepy now, that’s for sure 🙂 Hehehe.
E: Hahaha. Well, have a nice dream tonight. Sleep tight!
H: You, too. Nite nite…
E: Hey, Poet…!
H: Yeah?
E: Promise me you’ll be OK?
H: …
E: Promise me?

IMG.http://images.businessweek.com/mz/04/45/techbuy/images/razr_phone.jpg

I had a bad dream last night.
In my dream, you’re dead.

The dream itself was a blurry mixture of sickness, (*zap!) car accident, (*zap!) overdose, (*zap!) and another eerie things. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember the cause of your death.

The next thing I knew, I was standing at the back of this dimly lit room. Your coffin was placed at the altar. There were candles everywhere. Crossed my mind then, that the room is actually my school’s chapel.

I saw your Mom and Dad, mourning, but I saw no one else. And then I found myself inside a strange bathroom with a huge bathtub. I saw myself punching the yellow walls before I ended up crying, silently.

Then I woke up. I was in my bedroom. Automatically, I slipped my hand under my pillow, looking for my cell phone. The digital clock on its screen showed 4:37. I rubbed my cheek and found out that it was actually damp with tears.
So the crying scene was real.
The tears were real.

Are-you-OK was the last thing that crossed my mind before I slipped back my cell phone under my pillow. I closed my eyes and as if I had just found a powerful charm, I kept saying “Please, stay” “Please, stay” “Please, stay” repetitively until I fell asleep.

But the feeling of losing you stays up to now.
And it scares me.

IMG. http://web.bvu.edu/students/richant/studio/portfolio/images/digital%20mourning.jpg

“There’s nothing like the rain, falling down again… to come and wash away the pain. There’s nothing like the rain, falling down again… to clear the air so we see again.”
(Nothing Like The Rain by 2 Unlimited)

You’re back.

I am surpised to know that after all these times, you’re still strolling along with me in this journey, though you’re not walking by my side any longer.
To notice your presence is one thing.
To accept it is another thing.

It must be fun for you to put your eyes on me and take a peek on my deepest thoughts, my deepest secrets, my deepest feelings…

To you, my life is nothing but a cheesy kind of movie that, slowly but sure, have turned into your guilty pleasure. Sometimes, the scene of my rise and fall makes you feel a bit emotional inside. Nevertheless, to you, I am merely an actress, and my life is nothing but a cheap entertainment for you to enjoy over a can of beer and a bowl of popcorn.

To be honest, I don’t mind. Though my life is surreal to you, it’s such a pleasure to know that you’re still there. Probably this is the only way for you to be able to understand me better, long after all those past misunderstandings that have accumulated into such a complicated matter.

It’s good to know you’re back,
though I am no longer there.

IMG. http://www.paulscharffphotography.com/Through_The_Window_In_The_Rain.JPG

“Don’t I know you from somewhere, or this fucking place is boiling?” (A Sense of Something Lost by Terry McDonagh)

I love Terry McDonagh, primarily, because I have no idea what he’s trying to say through his eccentric poems. Reading The World without Stone, A Song for Joanna, or No Places in The Marshes is like walking in the desert, blindfolded.

That’s why I love to read his poems everytime I feel stuck. Eerily, his poems left me with this wacky sensation that runs through me as I flip each pages: a sense of… something lost.

When your whole life is so well-organized, and you live by the rules each day, you need some chaos to maintain your sanity. That’s why I love Terry. That’s why I love you.

I love the way you make me feel lost.
Your chaotic life is like a stain over my spotless canvas.

IMG. http://irishliteraryrevival.com/writers/terrymcdonagh/aworldwithoutstone.jpg