Lana Effing Del Rey has just released
her 6th studio album; Norman Fucking Rockwell and I can’t decide which track is
the best for midnight dating with my laptop – backsound of my writing habit. The
theme she chooses this time is quiet wide and as deep as Ultraviolence but as
sweet as Lust for Love. I would not say this is her best art piece, because she
will release the next album in 2020 and counting, but I can say that she just
gave birth to the best album of 2019.
The other prominent female artist, let us say Taytay who won many
Grammys, also lately released her carefully produced album, but I can’t comment
anything to it. I prefer Lorde or Melanie Martinez. My ears fancy dark music.
Back to 2014, the first time I
discover Lana Del Rey. It was like finding gems in an abandoned mineral mine.
Personally, I prefer those underrated artists, indie ones, to fullfill my
playlist. At that time I typed “TOP 40 Track” and I found “Born to Die” within.
The 60’s sound and style, featuring Renaissance chapel, tiger, flowery hair, and
sultry vocal along trap composition served me the best. Then I got deeper to
internet, finding the unreleased songs of Lana as Lizzy Grant, yes mention
Video Games and Summertime Sadness.
I think the reasons why I love her music are poetic lyrics, angelic vocal, and depressive theme she delivers.
During the darkest era of my life, I was a very sad person. I lost weight so
much, could not catch sleep earlier, and I barely could enjoy any party. I
lived at my friend’s house, in burden all the time, under pressured by many art
projects, thesis, neglected by my family, and my long-lost sweetie boy came
back to re-unite. It was a shame that industry did not publish plenty options of
sad music. Mostly it was about reaching dream, party animal, and hip-hop songs
were like nowhere to be found. Lana sings in paradox, sad words in up beat
music, or vice versa. It’s like my two face personality, I performed the
happiest in front of people but I cried while nobody was home. The wall,
pillow, blanket, and cats were the witnesses.
Basically, I wasn’t come from
lower class family. I still can remember those old fine days, I lived like a
little princess. Then my parents separated, I entered the dark side, a lone
person I become. I hid in my shell, effing myself most of the time. I was tiny,
wearing glasses, never wear any make-up, hated crowded, and suffering phobia of
public speaking. Sometimes, when the class villains had odds, they would love
to making fun of me. I was underestimated and treated badly from the society.
And now I am here, living a low income life, having debts, I must work 30
hours a day to create better future for me.
Reaching 29, I start to worry
many things. Money machine, career, house, car and husband. I put husband at
the last, because I barely never think about it within 24 hours. I don’t think
there somewhere lives a man who can hold me without hurting me, physically and
mentally. The emotional sides of me is too complicated for any living being. Beneath
this mature attitude, I am childlike one. Behind my passionate working ability,
I am sick of life. After sharing stuffs with friend, I worry about feedback. I
am a Chinese porcelain. Beautiful but fragile.
I started my career as a writer,
short story writer. Instead of upgrading my skill or producing more, I ended up
working as filmmaker and several side-jobs to feed me. Sometimes, I envy them.
I envy those fellow artists who can produce plenty pieces in a year, without
thinking about making money cause parents feed them from dusk till down. I miss
that period, where I could sit all day in my room, writing, watching movie,
listening to music, daydreaming while father was outside, all steady to provide
my wishes. It’s been three years since the last time I saw his face. No, I don’t
want his money, I only need his presence. I wish I could be by his side in his
final seconds.
These days, I hide from the
flashy life. I hate publications, I hate social activity. I hate art exhibition
cause I can’t find mine in between. I hate how society ignores my existence
because I don’t follow their demand. I am not a production machine. I am an
artist, I follow my heart. I never had stages anymore. No discussion to attend
as speaker, no events to direct. Mostly, I enslave myself to the industry, I
work anything as long as it can give me money to enjoy coffee. I feel like the
poorer version of Lana Del Rey. A sad-lone girl far here, in the jungle of
Makassar, a not so cultured city. My poems are all gloomy and often
misunderstood. I talk lust, love, abusive person, dark paradise, suicide, and
midnight cruelty.
Happiness is a butterfly, said Lana. Precisely, a caterpillar spends most of its life to be a there days old beautiful creature. then die. just die.
