seorang pengamen terjerembab
di lorong baja
seruling sundanya
pecah jadi dua
di sampingnya
gadis bergaun bunga
membenarkan sehelai rambut
di poninya.
Monday, 13 November 2006
Monday, 6 November 2006
Dicari penulis lepas tentang makanan!
| Start: | Nov 6, '06 04:00a |
| End: | Nov 20, '06 |
| Location: | Jabodetabek |
pecinta makanan yang juga dapat menulis ulasan tentang
makanan di sejumlah tempat di Jakarta. Mereka yang
terpilih akan menentukan sendiri jadwal kerja mereka
untuk menikmati sejumlah tempat makan dan mampu
memenuhi tenggat waktu yang telah ditentukan.
Jika Anda tertarik, Anda harus sesuai dengan
kualifikasi di bawah ini.
Anda:
- Warga Negara Indonesia/ asing
- 25 - 55 tahun
- Suka makanan
- Jujur
- Memiliki keingintahuan akan tempat-tempat makan
- Memiliki kemampuan menilai yang objektif
- Mampu menulis dalam bahasa Indonesia dan Inggris
- Bersedia untuk menulis tentang sejumlah tempat makan
yang ditunjuk apakah itu restoran (lokal/
internasional) warung, atau kaki lima
- Mampu memenuhi jadwal deadline
Jika Anda sesuai dengan criteria di atas, segera
kirimkan:
- CV
- SATU ulasan Anda tentang makanan sebuah
restoran/kaki lima/warung di JAKARTA. Ulasan ditulis
dalam bahasa Indonesia dan Inggris masing-masing dalam
MAKSIMAL 50 kata.
Kirim melalui surat elektronik ke kububuku@kububuku.com
paling lambat 20 November 2006.
Tuesday, 31 October 2006
the rainbow mall
around the ultra-modern water-walled
new shopping mall people still
put up fence in the old way:
thin slices of old bamboo that cut
into yellow palms, bits of wire and
the reliable softness of the red earth
of jakarta.
new shopping mall people still
put up fence in the old way:
thin slices of old bamboo that cut
into yellow palms, bits of wire and
the reliable softness of the red earth
of jakarta.
Wednesday, 18 October 2006
fuckin sinema indonesia didn't fuckin publish this one why the fuck ya fuckin lily-livered bastards
LIVER
(Starvision)
directed by Hanny R. Saputra (Virgin, Mirror)
starring Nirina Zubir, a Peterpan's Ariel lookalike, a girl with a really big head who looks about twelve
Rachel grew up with Farel. They played one-on-one basketball, had a really great treehouse which only Rachel could climb, and played practical jokes on each other—of which their favorites was playing dead, one of them would fake an accidental death and wait for the other to pinch his/her nose and put her/his mouth over his/hers to start CPR and she/he would wake up and laugh at his/her gullibility. And broke the hearts of the paedophiles in the audience.
They hit adolescence. Rachel added a skateboard, a baseball glove and an unlimited supply of extra large t-shirts to hide her curves to her list of tomboy apparel and Farel fell in love with a girl with an unlimited supply tears. No wonder, she writes a series of comic books that tells the story of a 'sad fairy who spends her days alone, waiting for her inevitable death.'
Her name was Luna, and she was dying of cirrhosis of the liver. She kept this secret from Farel. She told him, 'I don't want your love,' and broke his heart. Luckily, it was the pink styrofoam one he had brought to her house. Farel was all at sea. Why had she taken him rowing on a beautiful, misty lake only to tell him, 'See that turtle over there? He's just like me. Destined to spend the rest of his days alone.' Why had she looked so happy when he got a three-piece band to serenade her at a romantic lunch in what looked like Mordor but is really just a hot water spring somewhere outside Bandung, but then pushed him away when he was just about to kiss her goodbye?
What should he do? Phone a friend?
Why phone when he could march straight into her room? Rachel, wiping away tears on her oversized, vintage Senen t-shirt, told him don't worry and a string of nauseating clichés later, Farel is back with Luna. He'd put the sparks back into her life. And put them out of Rachel's.
Rachel loves Farel too (fuck knows why, the guy's pimply, wears stupid distro t-shirts that always look too shiny and new and ironed, and his hair, like Ariel's, is a mas-mas's idea of cool) but what could she do, she hasn't got liver cancer!
Bring on the hospital. Where, like Suharto re: Abdul Latief has proved, any sort of plot complications can be solved. Luna's cirrhosis went into angry, blood-spitting mode, she went into a coma, and the only thing that can save her was a better storyline, no, yes, a liver transplant. Meanwhile, Rachel's unrequited love went into cross-country running mode and she ran and ran across a landscape that looked like Mordor but is really just a hill somewhere near Tangkuban Perahu. Was she running, like that canned-pineapple eater in Chungking Express, so she wouldn't have to feel the pain of her sadness? Maybe. But any pain she might've been feeling must've gone after she tripped on a mangrove and fell, her body double doing an impressive imitation of Nirina Zubir rolling on a pilates ball, head first into a canyon. She went into a coma, and the same emergency room Luna was in. The doctors wanted to amputate one of Rachel's leg, and at this point I thought the fairest thing to do was for Farel to take a cyanide capsule, Der Untergang-like, blow his brains out, and donate his leg to Rachel and his liver to Luna.
But I know that wasn't going to happen. And you know what must've happened instead.
Later at Rachel's grave (at the same Mordor-like place that everyone in this movie seemed unable to resist going to), whose funeral he didn't attend because he was too busy laying seeds for Luna's growing collection of pot plants (yeah right!, you were laying seeds alright you proto-Ariel you!), Rachel's mother handed Farel a letter Rachel had written on her deathbed. The voiceover (with echoy, from behind the grave sound FX of course) said plaintively, 'Dear Farel, I've donated my liver to Luna, because, though I've never told you, my liver has always been for you, so now, my liver, inside her, will always be with you forever.'
I'm not making any sense? Retranslate the English back into Indonesian.
HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!
In his interview with Koran Tempo today (Sunday, 14 May 2006), Hanny R. Saputra explained that he again used an English title for his movie (after Virgin and Mirror) because he wanted to 'go with the kids. It's cooler. Easier on your tongue. Heart, than 'hati', ….' He also said he's so busy making films these days, he can't be bothered to watch movies anymore. Or it seems, learn English.
PS1: it's true that the centre of the love universe in a lot of, mostly non-AngloSaxon, cultures is in the liver. But though you could read Hanny's film as a postcolonial warcry to take love back down to the liver: don't. Because it's not. And it's not the first time Hanny (ab)used English in his movies. Remember the Truth or Dare scene in Virgin? One fresh-faced faced virgin gift-wrapped just for you if you could find Truth in that game. It was more like Dare and Dare!
PS2: my girlfriend said that the storyline in this movie was lifted from a Taiwanese romantic comedy. And that a lot of the scenes looked like screen adaptations of those Elex Japanese comics that people read standing up in Gramedia. That's why there was a lot of emotional jumpcuts in the movie, a character cries and then next second, laughs like a little girl. Rachel would give up everything for Farel then next frame, she tries to run him over in her Land Rover. Kitschy subtext, kinda funny. Went totally over my head. I was thinking they were more like those exaggerated emotional shorthands in sinetrons (ie., she wants to run him over in her Land Rover = she's angry; she's sad, but people don't like seeing sad people sad all the time = make her laugh, like, now. Don't worry if she had just woken up from a 10-hour operation for a liver transplant). The whole system a shorthand for let's make the story go quicker and money flow endlessly into Starvision's coffers.
©® Mikael Johani 2006
(Starvision)
directed by Hanny R. Saputra (Virgin, Mirror)
starring Nirina Zubir, a Peterpan's Ariel lookalike, a girl with a really big head who looks about twelve
Rachel grew up with Farel. They played one-on-one basketball, had a really great treehouse which only Rachel could climb, and played practical jokes on each other—of which their favorites was playing dead, one of them would fake an accidental death and wait for the other to pinch his/her nose and put her/his mouth over his/hers to start CPR and she/he would wake up and laugh at his/her gullibility. And broke the hearts of the paedophiles in the audience.
They hit adolescence. Rachel added a skateboard, a baseball glove and an unlimited supply of extra large t-shirts to hide her curves to her list of tomboy apparel and Farel fell in love with a girl with an unlimited supply tears. No wonder, she writes a series of comic books that tells the story of a 'sad fairy who spends her days alone, waiting for her inevitable death.'
Her name was Luna, and she was dying of cirrhosis of the liver. She kept this secret from Farel. She told him, 'I don't want your love,' and broke his heart. Luckily, it was the pink styrofoam one he had brought to her house. Farel was all at sea. Why had she taken him rowing on a beautiful, misty lake only to tell him, 'See that turtle over there? He's just like me. Destined to spend the rest of his days alone.' Why had she looked so happy when he got a three-piece band to serenade her at a romantic lunch in what looked like Mordor but is really just a hot water spring somewhere outside Bandung, but then pushed him away when he was just about to kiss her goodbye?
What should he do? Phone a friend?
Why phone when he could march straight into her room? Rachel, wiping away tears on her oversized, vintage Senen t-shirt, told him don't worry and a string of nauseating clichés later, Farel is back with Luna. He'd put the sparks back into her life. And put them out of Rachel's.
Rachel loves Farel too (fuck knows why, the guy's pimply, wears stupid distro t-shirts that always look too shiny and new and ironed, and his hair, like Ariel's, is a mas-mas's idea of cool) but what could she do, she hasn't got liver cancer!
Bring on the hospital. Where, like Suharto re: Abdul Latief has proved, any sort of plot complications can be solved. Luna's cirrhosis went into angry, blood-spitting mode, she went into a coma, and the only thing that can save her was a better storyline, no, yes, a liver transplant. Meanwhile, Rachel's unrequited love went into cross-country running mode and she ran and ran across a landscape that looked like Mordor but is really just a hill somewhere near Tangkuban Perahu. Was she running, like that canned-pineapple eater in Chungking Express, so she wouldn't have to feel the pain of her sadness? Maybe. But any pain she might've been feeling must've gone after she tripped on a mangrove and fell, her body double doing an impressive imitation of Nirina Zubir rolling on a pilates ball, head first into a canyon. She went into a coma, and the same emergency room Luna was in. The doctors wanted to amputate one of Rachel's leg, and at this point I thought the fairest thing to do was for Farel to take a cyanide capsule, Der Untergang-like, blow his brains out, and donate his leg to Rachel and his liver to Luna.
But I know that wasn't going to happen. And you know what must've happened instead.
Later at Rachel's grave (at the same Mordor-like place that everyone in this movie seemed unable to resist going to), whose funeral he didn't attend because he was too busy laying seeds for Luna's growing collection of pot plants (yeah right!, you were laying seeds alright you proto-Ariel you!), Rachel's mother handed Farel a letter Rachel had written on her deathbed. The voiceover (with echoy, from behind the grave sound FX of course) said plaintively, 'Dear Farel, I've donated my liver to Luna, because, though I've never told you, my liver has always been for you, so now, my liver, inside her, will always be with you forever.'
I'm not making any sense? Retranslate the English back into Indonesian.
HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!
In his interview with Koran Tempo today (Sunday, 14 May 2006), Hanny R. Saputra explained that he again used an English title for his movie (after Virgin and Mirror) because he wanted to 'go with the kids. It's cooler. Easier on your tongue. Heart, than 'hati', ….' He also said he's so busy making films these days, he can't be bothered to watch movies anymore. Or it seems, learn English.
PS1: it's true that the centre of the love universe in a lot of, mostly non-AngloSaxon, cultures is in the liver. But though you could read Hanny's film as a postcolonial warcry to take love back down to the liver: don't. Because it's not. And it's not the first time Hanny (ab)used English in his movies. Remember the Truth or Dare scene in Virgin? One fresh-faced faced virgin gift-wrapped just for you if you could find Truth in that game. It was more like Dare and Dare!
PS2: my girlfriend said that the storyline in this movie was lifted from a Taiwanese romantic comedy. And that a lot of the scenes looked like screen adaptations of those Elex Japanese comics that people read standing up in Gramedia. That's why there was a lot of emotional jumpcuts in the movie, a character cries and then next second, laughs like a little girl. Rachel would give up everything for Farel then next frame, she tries to run him over in her Land Rover. Kitschy subtext, kinda funny. Went totally over my head. I was thinking they were more like those exaggerated emotional shorthands in sinetrons (ie., she wants to run him over in her Land Rover = she's angry; she's sad, but people don't like seeing sad people sad all the time = make her laugh, like, now. Don't worry if she had just woken up from a 10-hour operation for a liver transplant). The whole system a shorthand for let's make the story go quicker and money flow endlessly into Starvision's coffers.
©® Mikael Johani 2006
Monday, 16 October 2006
late night in a bus to newcastle
was there frost
on windows did we blow
kisses to the dark
outside did you point
to the two overlapping
slowly-disappearing
circles was your arm around
my neck did you say
going, going, going
gone
is this what's happening
now to you and my memory of
going, going, going
gone?
on windows did we blow
kisses to the dark
outside did you point
to the two overlapping
slowly-disappearing
circles was your arm around
my neck did you say
going, going, going
gone
is this what's happening
now to you and my memory of
going, going, going
gone?
Tuesday, 10 October 2006
what people say about me
"kalau kamu cuma mau belajar ___ buat apa jauh-jauh mama kirim ke ____, mama kirim aja kamu ke ___!"
"you're so two-faced."
"he's good, but he's a prick."
"males ah kasih tulisan gue ke dia, pasti entar cuman dicela-cela."
"kamu kelihatannya masih suka mengingkari dirimu sendiri, sih."
"dia kan memang sok tahu."
"dari bordieu sampai tai kebo juga dia punya pendapat."
"he's just a failed writer."
"dia bisa menulis dengan witty tentang hal-hal yang banal."
"makin binan aja tu anak."
"you're a user."
"kamu belum banyak baca sastra indonesia ya?"
"has suharto banned good haircuts too?"
"nggak sopan."
"jangan gitu ___, ini rumah pakde."
"he's the laziest muthafucka i know."
"you're so two-faced."
"he's good, but he's a prick."
"males ah kasih tulisan gue ke dia, pasti entar cuman dicela-cela."
"kamu kelihatannya masih suka mengingkari dirimu sendiri, sih."
"dia kan memang sok tahu."
"dari bordieu sampai tai kebo juga dia punya pendapat."
"he's just a failed writer."
"dia bisa menulis dengan witty tentang hal-hal yang banal."
"makin binan aja tu anak."
"you're a user."
"kamu belum banyak baca sastra indonesia ya?"
"has suharto banned good haircuts too?"
"nggak sopan."
"jangan gitu ___, ini rumah pakde."
"he's the laziest muthafucka i know."
G30S/P&K
this from tempo, 9-15 oktober 2006, p. 20: "Kejaksaan Agung akan meneliti buku-buku itu [buku pelajaran sejarah untuk SMP dan SMA yang tidak mencantumkan kata Partai Komunis Indonesia dalam frase Gerakan 30 September] dalam sebuah forum clearing house. Forum itu beranggotakan wakil-wakil dari Kejaksaan, Kepolisian, Badan Intelijen Negara, Badan Intelijen Strategis, Departemen Agama, dan Departeman Pendidikan Nasional." and whatever the fuck happened to the historians?!
Wednesday, 21 June 2006
Notes Found at the National Museum
Ink stand ink stand
Silver Plate Silver miniature of a temple
A miniature of a church 60 17 106 48 East Longitude
Then and Now: Jakarta
An oval table
A stick-on table
Write down what the Holy Spirit does:
Spiritus Sancti
Silver Plate Silver miniature of a temple
A miniature of a church 60 17 106 48 East Longitude
Then and Now: Jakarta
An oval table
A stick-on table
Write down what the Holy Spirit does:
Spiritus Sancti
Monday, 19 June 2006
Raumanen Launch
| Start: | Jun 21, '06 4:00p |
| End: | Jun 21, '06 6:00p |
| Location: | QB Sunda |
And the evil Samudra Buku man at the Jakarta Book Fair tried to charge you 200,000 rupes for a watermarked, mouldy copy of it with the cover missing.
No more!
You can now buy a copy of Raumanen, the classic '70s novel by Marianne Katoppo, at all the QB stores and most Gramedias for only Rp 29,500. Lovingly repackaged and rereleased by metafor publishing.
And on Wednesday (today) at QB Sunda from 4-6 pm you can meet the author, get your copies of the book signed, ask her where has Raumanen gone missing all this time, whatever has been bugging you about this mysterious, hard-to-find (until now!) book.
All for free! (except the books, you have to buy them)
Monday, 29 May 2006
"Praise be to God, and to you too."
I know, you must be sick of me. I'm sorry. I don't want to do this either. Who would? But I need the money to pay for my school fees, my brothers', books for my sister, ribbons for her hair. My parents are not rich, not like yours. But I have hopes too, dreams, plans for the future. So, please.
And of course: praise be to you, and God too.
God
And of course: praise be to you, and God too.
God
Tuesday, 9 May 2006
Two Girls & Me
| Rating: | ★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | S.M. Ardan |
Then I'll ask Girl I out for dinner
We'll eat & drink
Smell the roses in the evening air
If the weather is fine
We'll talk about love
My head feels heavy, & my chest,
& my pockets & my stomach empty
I'll go visit Girl II at her house
We'll talk
& love's all around us, in the air, inside us
& stays on the tips of our toungues
As we sip tea and crunch fried peanuts between our teeth
Once I get paid, believe me,
I will go to Girl I's wedding
We'll shake hands,
My hands will be shaking.
She will say, 'I do.'
The rain will clear.
In the morning I will buy two bags of lollies
I will scatter them over the grave of Girl II
The red soil will be wet
And with the rest of the money in my pocket
I will fly to Menteng and drown myself in my sorrow
Alone.
If someone would give me some money for this poem
I will ask Girl I and her husband to go see a movie
And or out for dinner at a restaurant
Then, with the rest of my money I will buy flowers, I'll scatter them over Girl II's grave
And I will drown myself
In total solitude.
(1952)
Sunday, 16 April 2006
Jakarta: Night
| Rating: | ★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Sitor Situmorang |
And Thamrin
I stopped. And looked up
At the neon lights
Blinking on rooftops.
Metropolis!
I freeze under the streetlights
The traffic lights
I think, I am
This is Jakarta
Not Hong Kong
Or Lake Toba
I left that
on a boat
one clear morning
long ago
Now
It's late
Time to go home.
Monday, 10 April 2006
you won't ever see it
blue water like cheap mints. sun hot as a wok. the soft hair on your thighs, wilting, for more protection, from the hand running over them. it's hot hot hot out here. no need for the heat heat heat on your ipod. what are you trying to block out? the peace and quiet you're looking for is down there. under the water rippling like a giant, earth-sized potato chip. just stick your head in. you'll even stop thinking about me. see the life dead corals make. the flowers of. the bare trees of. the pussy folds of. the arrows of fish stopping, darting back, there, towards you, and away, like pasopati before kresna gave arjuna his bhagavadgita lesson. the chapter you always skip over. come back here. stop thinking. nothing's done when you're too busy thinking. put on your floats. the orange is so people can see you. so they don't forget. there are other people in this world. the goggles are for seeing things clearer than you can. the snorkel is so you can breathe when you normally can't. everything's here so you can be here now.
Thursday, 6 April 2006
angry management
you can't post when you're angry.
or can you?
sometimes anger is good management.
the things you want to do
become
the things you have to do
become
the things you're doing
now.
anger
or can you?
sometimes anger is good management.
the things you want to do
become
the things you have to do
become
the things you're doing
now.
anger
Digital Video Festival
| Rating: | ★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Jimi Multhazam |
To the future
West of Jakarta!
Make a U-ee
Before Fatahillah
To Glodok Raya!
The National Film Centre
The Kingdom of Movie Heaven
Hollywood, Bollywood
Cannes, Tehran
Let's go crazy!
Digital Video Festival
We don't wanna wait in line
No extra butter
On our overpriced popcorns
Gimme that five thousand note, girl
And I'll show you
Happy!
Let's go
Home!
To the piles of pirated discs
And freedom to go
Crazy!
Digital Video Festival
Wednesday, 5 April 2006
Disco Emergency
| Rating: | ★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Jimi Multhazam |
Active speakers. Modern life
Green mixing desk. Second hand
Lighting rig. 17th of August
We dance
Disco Disco
Emergency! Disco
Mozilla and CD-Rs
Cramped kos 3x4
School corridor late at night
Art openings we're late for
We dance
Disco Disco
Emergency! Disco
No house music hey na na na na
Nothing breaks beat fa fa fa
Jolts of the eccentrics
Fun of your antics
We dance
Disco Disco
Emergency! Disco!
Monday, 3 April 2006
i need crutches for my ego
this is it.
this is the old artery of the city.
or the artery of the old city.
whichever way you look at it
it's clogged.
used books like bricks.
old storefronts for new businesses.
booming.
like, really booming.
or is it really?
magnificence of supply
doesn't always mean
super-duper demand.
what am i talking about?
kwitang, at 4.37 pm.
interfaith dialogue
in action:
gunung agung - wali songo - gunung mulia
a 'torn dollar bills bought' makeshift stall -
(really, just a man sitting next to a sign
made of corrugated iron
his bum bag hanging on its back)
a man on crutches walking slowly
very slowly
i could't bear to watch -
me.
sometimes i don't know why i live in this place
sometimes i think:
i have ruined my life.
but then i get an afternoon like this
the sky was blue
thin cigarette smokes
of clouds in the corner
bright sun
like a halogen lamp
turned on too early
and nothing
that could make me sad.
i walked past the man on crutches
he was old
maybe he's a 'character'
from around here
or maybe i'm just thinking that
because i didn't want anything to make me sad.
or because i was too happy
i was only thinking happy thoughts
of me in this big city
and finding my place in it.
i walked into bpk gunung mulia
upstairs into the sunday school section
and grabbed all the little house
books i could find.
ten of them.
there are eleven in the series.
'one is still in the printers,' the cashier said.
'oh, okay.'
10 out of 11 ain't bad.
i should count myself lucky.
i walked down the blue-carpeted stairs
stains of man on the silver railings
perfect fingerprints
sweat
and i saw the sign
70% off
great combination of numbers and letters
the greatest idea of man
and of course i went
and found
the last one
the last copy
marked down
yellowing on the margin
the eleventh of the 11
books i wanted.
i am lucky.
i am happy.
i am.
i walked out.
the sun was still shining
the sky was still blue
more clouds, more like cotton candy
but hey,
you can't have everything.
i walked down the street
looking for a taxi
and i saw
the old man on crutches
stopping
gathering strength
50 metres from where i saw him last.
this is the old artery of the city.
or the artery of the old city.
whichever way you look at it
it's clogged.
used books like bricks.
old storefronts for new businesses.
booming.
like, really booming.
or is it really?
magnificence of supply
doesn't always mean
super-duper demand.
what am i talking about?
kwitang, at 4.37 pm.
interfaith dialogue
in action:
gunung agung - wali songo - gunung mulia
a 'torn dollar bills bought' makeshift stall -
(really, just a man sitting next to a sign
made of corrugated iron
his bum bag hanging on its back)
a man on crutches walking slowly
very slowly
i could't bear to watch -
me.
sometimes i don't know why i live in this place
sometimes i think:
i have ruined my life.
but then i get an afternoon like this
the sky was blue
thin cigarette smokes
of clouds in the corner
bright sun
like a halogen lamp
turned on too early
and nothing
that could make me sad.
i walked past the man on crutches
he was old
maybe he's a 'character'
from around here
or maybe i'm just thinking that
because i didn't want anything to make me sad.
or because i was too happy
i was only thinking happy thoughts
of me in this big city
and finding my place in it.
i walked into bpk gunung mulia
upstairs into the sunday school section
and grabbed all the little house
books i could find.
ten of them.
there are eleven in the series.
'one is still in the printers,' the cashier said.
'oh, okay.'
10 out of 11 ain't bad.
i should count myself lucky.
i walked down the blue-carpeted stairs
stains of man on the silver railings
perfect fingerprints
sweat
and i saw the sign
70% off
great combination of numbers and letters
the greatest idea of man
and of course i went
and found
the last one
the last copy
marked down
yellowing on the margin
the eleventh of the 11
books i wanted.
i am lucky.
i am happy.
i am.
i walked out.
the sun was still shining
the sky was still blue
more clouds, more like cotton candy
but hey,
you can't have everything.
i walked down the street
looking for a taxi
and i saw
the old man on crutches
stopping
gathering strength
50 metres from where i saw him last.
jakarta" rel="tag"jakarta
Sunday, 26 March 2006
I Walk Amongst Them
| Rating: | ★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Chairil Anwar |
They who cornered me
Into a face/off
On the side of the street.
I see the world through
Their eyes. I follow them
Through the hacking crowd.
The reality as they see it.
(The Capitol is playing
American flicks,
We dance
To all the top ten hits.)
We go home
Not a hair out of place
Though death
In all its guises
Is all around us.
We huddle at a stop
Wait for the City tram
In the deep of the night.
I pray for those who read
My scribbles out of love.
I pray for syphilis
And leprosy (and
The simple matter
Of the atomic bomb).
This is the proof
Of our independence:
I open my arms
To the living:
Those who can see
The darkness I see
And the darkness
In me.
Sunday, 19 March 2006
i lost it, a long time ago
he just has to close his eyes and he will come back to the same old places. narrow alleys cobbled out of chinese gravestones, the nicer, coloured ones cut carefully into narrow steps up into the home, the doors open to let air in into the dark inside, the smell of 4 o'clock, of the sun dribbling ball into corners and the damp rubbing hands in the dugout.
he doesn't know why. he doesn't know what he's looking for. what's the point of remembering when you can only remember one thing?
he stands in front of the old house where his father grew up, subdivided into a pink miniature of of a wog mansion and a warteg serving cold gudeg and bright red krecek hard as bricks. he can hear the chatter of old women investigating each other, "payu? payu pira?" their great old breasts sag like the unsold mangos in front of them.
he opens his eyes. if there's meaning in any of this, he no longer wants to know.
he doesn't know why. he doesn't know what he's looking for. what's the point of remembering when you can only remember one thing?
he stands in front of the old house where his father grew up, subdivided into a pink miniature of of a wog mansion and a warteg serving cold gudeg and bright red krecek hard as bricks. he can hear the chatter of old women investigating each other, "payu? payu pira?" their great old breasts sag like the unsold mangos in front of them.
he opens his eyes. if there's meaning in any of this, he no longer wants to know.
Friday, 17 March 2006
is crumpled in old letters
he found one yesterday. on yellow paper like corncobs missing the smell of butter. he wrote it when he was away, where the streets were hilly and the heat in spring was strong enough to leave a heart-shaped sweat mark on your butt when you go for a power walk. if you go. he never did. but this girl was, the old highschool friend of his old girlfriend who was away on a holiday to fiji and the friend had asked him as she power walked past his daydreaming gait, "how is she?" and he was too shocked to answer and just screamed, "fine!" his eyes on the wet dark heart of her ass. but later he'd written about the encounter, typing the words excitedly on his new second-hand brother with the missing : key so he had to write "met susan this arvo on that hilltop you always want me to hurry up c'mon, she asked how you were and so i said you were too busy spit-roasting across fiji, aren't i funny?" yes, he was funny, he thought. he was ironic, if by that he meant he was lying to be funny. now everything is so serious. as grave as a grave. he doesn't feel like funny. he doesn't even like lying anymore. he feels like he has to get at the truth, the cold hard facts of everything everytime, he has forgotten how to be ironic. instead, everything feels hard, iron-ic, iron-y.
he's thinking of ditching
he's sick of writing the punning titles, sick of the sadness, the seriousness, lips puckered up like someone cramming for ebtanas—he was thinking of himself, years ago—and thinking i can really nail this if i worked hard enough, he doesn't wanna work hard anymore, all the hard work made ebtanas boy a very dull man, sitting on top of the roof with his sejarah text book, looking at all the other RT boys playing football on the sandy pitch behind his house—oh what he would've killed for the fine golden powder of sand on the boys's feet, gold that will turn to black tributaries when they pour ice cold water over it, from bottles taken from his fridge, the only fridge in the neighbourhood. but he didn't kill anything. that was the point. the roof, his whole house was like a gigantic fence, so big no one could see it was a fence, he was sitting on. he'd read a bit, "jenderal urip sumoharjo bertanggung jawab ...," then his eyes would jerk up off his book and towards the direction of the latest excited scream in front of goal. "no, rumpun's too good for that kind of cross." he struggled hard to get the best of both worlds, when all along what he wanted just little pieces of. just a taste. he ended up with nothing.
you might have to find somewhere else
like at the grounds of the old palace where he went, bare-footed by order of the guards, old and wrinkled like the trunks of the sawo trees, one day when he wanted to be away from his family and everything else that was crowding in around him. his life. the lack of. he stepped on the cold black sand, imported two hundred years ago from 60 miles west, from the old burnt palace, for better luck next time. his heels pressed hard on the sand, he wanted to leave his mark, like men always do, but the sand refused to give in. so he walked on, around the dark pendopo, stepping over the No Visitor Past This Point line when no one was looking, and he thought, "that's like giving someone the finger and sticking it up my own ass," and he laughed, quietly, as if out of respect for the watermarked angels and goddesses. the white eyes always make them look like they were blind he thought again. and as he turned, trying to make a divot with his heel and failing again, he saw an old woman with cleavage brown as chestnut and carrying a brazier of glowing charcoal like it was the most normal thing to do in the world. she looks totally ridiculous. and sweet. i want to cry. he felt the same way whenever he was in bali and having got up early in the morning walked around the streets trying to find a breakfast place that was not a continental or american and always failing, and saw pretty shop attendants in kebaya that somehow look so much sexier with the thin, brief obi like an afterthought giving sacrifice to the gods, flicking holy water with the makeshift spoon made of bamboo, doing the sembah with eyes closed like they really meant it, in that brief moment when the sun had not had time to burn away your dreams for the day you would believe in anything, wouldn't you? and then he would wish the gujarati traders or cheng ho or whoever it was had never bartered islam into this country. this is just so much prettier. i want to start my day everyday like this. and the old woman with the great brown cleavage shining like a lake under the midday sun walked past him as if nothing else but her devotion to serve the new king (but which one does she really believe in? does it matter?) mattered in this world. no, existed. he cut across the invisible track she left on the cold black sand and the tip of his nose hit the thin white cloud from the burning charcoal tailing her. he was surprised the smoke didn't burn his skin. it was just warm, and enveloped his head like a witch's spell. which made him think: she, me, those pretty balinese girls, this stupid kraton, that megalopolitan i want so much to call home, everything is so random, and everything is related, nothing is true.
Wednesday, 15 March 2006
He and I
| Rating: | ★★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Chairil Anwar |
It's late and and we're still walking
Through the mist
The rain soaking us through
The ships frozen at the docks
Blood thickens, my body is solid iron
What was that ...?
Nothing's left of you but cold bones
The rain has stripped everything else
What time is it?
It's very late
Nothing means anything anymore
Even the way you move.
Tuesday, 14 March 2006
North Freedom St., Jakarta
| Rating: | ★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | F. Rahardi |
mahoganies stand with the raintrees
the angsanas in coats of black exhaust
and watch
suits and ties
bulging suitcases
shiny shoes
polished everyday
the bowing drivers
and the bodyguards
erect like pencils
lift their heads up
let the wind hit
and tamarind leaves
fall like snow
on their sweaty faces
Saturday, 11 March 2006
and what i like about this city
is how everywhere you go you see people trying to make a living, people trying to live and you look around them and all you see is death. there, an empty plastic garuda peanuts wrapper glazed in rain water like a bright yellow accidental donut, a broken bicycle wheel with the tyre still on it though a section is peeling off like a band-aid on its second day, the rain's made the black rubber shine like a leather patch on your elbow, right on the sharp angle where someone had tried to make a square out of the shiny circle of the wheel it looks exactly like that, then there is always the puddles of water like temporary lakes that reflect the big city lights like a prostitute's polished nails and the bigger one that will stand the test of time and the evening's heat and greet tomorrow's sun like the mirror in your bathroom. death. death. death. and life inside and between the spaces inside and around the letters. as i walked on i kept thinking, "someone should give these people a break," then i saw them, two blind men swinging their white canes over me on the busway ramp. they walked closely together, as if happy for the audio support when the canes hit the metal railings and for the jolt that must run up their arms when the canes hit each other in mid air. and then i knew, there will be no break in the cruel play of life for these people.
Friday, 27 January 2006
Lebaran Night
| Rating: | ★★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Sitor Situmorang |
The moon above
A gravesite.
Technorati Profile
Jakarta
| Rating: | ★★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Sitor Situmorang |
Jakarta
(for Sumantri)
I am a swamp
Heat blurs the white walls
Everything has a meaning, man and malaria.
Monday, 23 January 2006
Risjwijk 17
| Rating: | ★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Taufiq Ismail (1966) |
Risjwijk 17
That night we were sitting on the balcony, the moon was up
Traffic was loud, bleating and roaring outside
Cables spread like hair between telegraph poles
We tried to make out the black outlines of the night
A becak hummed on asphalt, crossed a ditch
Then suddenly in the sky, a bright sickle of light
Cut across the row of pines behind the hospital
We got up, looked at each other: Is that the satellite they couldn't stop talking
about?
The bright star at the tip moved on, slowly like time
The sickle bent its back westward
Across the roofs, skimming the top of the hospital pines
Blinking to the earth below.
We said nothing. We craned our necks to watch the play of lights
Jazz on the radio, 'Summertime',
More bending of the sickle, over
The roof of another building, slicing the shadow it cast
Over a house in disorder
Wrestling over concepts of freedom
And how to make poverty and starvation
History. As the satellite marched on towards the moon
And the next jungle of technological puzzles
And as the house tried again to spell
D-E-M-O-C-R-A-C-Y, starting with the sickle-bend in D
The moon that illuminated the sky and the earth under it, what was dark
And was now light, and children running, laughing, showing teeth,
Over bits and pieces of sloganeering, trampling portraits
Of cult personalities, as they played bandits-and-heroes,
Along the pedestrian strip, the Old Fort's Wall and King's Way
Ransacking the offices of the bureaucrats and ushering them
Out. Off they went. A pack of wolves who
Told lies for a living and now looked around for someone to lead them on.
Someone who would bark at the moon. Once. Twice. There's no point.
He wept over the darkening sky.
Over the red moon, old pines,
His old hunting ground. His hungry bitches.
The marble floor cold on his paws, he craned his head up
Into the sky. Now it's more than just a matter of "It's so beautiful it makes me want to cry"
More than just a matter of the position of stars in astrology
Computerized numbers, technological experiments, and precision!
And here people struggle against anti-logic still
The problem of the four-freedoms, protein deficiency,
No electricity and abandoned blue-prints
Someone walked off, then tens of them, thousands,
Into the flying discs of fire
Like an old wave, slowly rising
Crashing over the horizon. Then stopped
And shouted: Hey you! You there! Yes you!
Hey ............ you
yes: YOU!
Sunday, 22 January 2006
Tram
| Rating: | ★★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Mh. Rustandi Kartakusuma |
Tram
The tram screams&screams!
barks!&snakes along the river.
I don't care anymore
a man's making faces at me on the other side of the banks.
I've run out of breath
Going against the current of morning traffic.
A pickpocket went for my wallet
and I'm sweating, like a horse.
All for nothing?
I am so stupid, in this city of millions
that tram couldn't be the only one.
(1950)
Friday, 20 January 2006
News from the Front of the Office of the Secretary of State
| Rating: | ★★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Taufiq Ismail |
News from the Front of the Office of the Secretary of State
Once his body has been stretchered
Hurriedly
Out
We sing
'Leaves are Falling'
Slowly
A soldier
Takes off his beret and wipes
Tears none of us can hold back
At the top of the Gajatri
A flag hangs limp
Behind it: a roll of clouds
Thursday, 19 January 2006
Going for a Jog in Menteng: One Morning
| Rating: | ★★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Toety Heraty |
morning jogs in in the city
no need for a map, won't do me any good—
they've changed the names of the streets
again. they'll soon run out of names of war heroes
streets and alleys, the veins of the city
messages and promises
that never go anywhere, aortas passing over the heart—
old routes in an old city painted
a deserted brown.
Ya,
the streets are empty
people running, lifting
deadweights on old shoulders
a tanjung petal falls, crushed beneath heavy feet
rare plants, sweet-smelling, dew on tips of leaves, everywhere
Now
the city wakes to morning's embrace
lights break through branches, streetlamps
put out, cars
one by one, break rules
traffic lights and one way signs.
Get off the street!
Becak, piled high with this morning's
produce, quick feet pedalling
quick sales at the morning market
Look!—
at Five Ways people deep-fry
bananas and cassavas for the builders
squatting, gossiping—
the progress of development, acceleration
and continuity, maintained as long as commissions are paid—
Clean Up Jakarta: the motto:
No Cigarette Butts! The basket-wielding
troops leave nothing to chance
even their own slow shadows, in the trees
trashbins, green gutters
face down, and quick as a flash
a cigarette butt at the end a mechanical arm.
Ai,
it will be light soon, must make
something of my day—a deserted map
Monas, the fountain, the bridge to
Kebayoran or Kuningan
an old map, like a dying heart
dark corners everywhere, the flow
will soon clog, then stop—
Karet, Menteng, Pulo, Tanah Kusir, wherever
as long as I can lie down, and not sleep
standing up
I know gravesites are getting too expensive these days.
But—
the worst thing is, if say for some reason
they won't bury me here
and one morning, like this one,
or whenever I let my guard down, my soul
will go looking around
for nostalgia in a city it doesn't recognise—
where's the deserted map of Jakarta, where the Xs
that mark the spots, notes, scribbles, and the lines
that mark the scars of life?
Tuesday, 17 January 2006
Song for a Good-Hearted Woman Before Her Fiftieth Birthday
| Rating: | ★★★ |
| Category: | Books |
| Genre: | Literature & Fiction |
| Author: | Toety Heraty |
Song for a Good-Hearted Woman Before Her Fiftieth Birthday
A motel in Kampung Bali
a little upmarket, the sign says 'Wisma'
a woman nearly fifty, waiting for his lover
inside a room, three-thousand rupiah a night, stuffy.
The ceiling fan's broken again
grey mold inside the bathtub, but the water is clean.
Yellow plastic ladle, blue bedsheet,
grimes on the wall next to the lampswitch, dust everywhere,
under it in permanent marker, "Romeo and Julia"
under it, "Cicih and Iman", the picture of a heart
and two arrows striking through.
She doesn't mind waiting, but is a little bothered
insulted perhaps
by the motel owner who let her
run upstairs with a big question mark on his face:
"This rich woman, she must be waiting for his man again,
why is she always hurrying?"
From outside, the sounds of the street,
bajaj, baso, the welding man,
rise and fall and creep in. She listens
to a grandmother swearing at grandchildren
throwing dirt on her laundry.
She doesn't mind waiting, though he's late again
what is it this time?
She sits down, throws herself into bed, clutching a pillow,
bites it. In her mind everything she doesn't need:
"Lover, I miss you, I need you,
don't betray me this time
though I know you've grown used to
betraying your wife—
this is not just an affair, we've been doing this
far too long—this is the only thing
that makes me happy, ah,
this is as good as it gets!
But what if he's woken up to his senses
and gone back to his wife, he's still got things
to sort out there too:
"I've been faithful, I've been good,
raise the kids, a pay rise every semester
pay back the mortgage faster,
I get on well with my in-laws, though not the cousin in-laws
they've forced me to take in!
Sundays, Lebarans, Thanksgivings, Tupperware dinners,
once in a while a movie for two, trading gossips
about the neighbours, listening between the lines,
that means something too ..."
"Why am I still here?
—pathetic!—he must've gone back to his wife!
What am I doing? I shouldn't be waiting
for someone else's husband—"
She gets up, ah, no, the bed has swallowed her
as the door creaks and he comes in
puts down his Echolac and: no more waiting,
no more thinking of unnecessary things, no greetings,
hugs, kisses, waste of time, because the two of them
past the prime of their lives, still have to go the length between
the north and south poles to meet
in this bed, amongst the sleaze of dust, these silent witnesses,
to taste the honey of life.
No longer young, they wear scars like proud epaulettes,
they caress, kiss each other where thorns, a blade,
whatever life has thrown at them, have drawn blood,
and in an hour or two, they are gone
as if by magic—
It's true
never for very long
until someone knocks on the door:
"The room is paid for, here's your change,
and your towels,
you want to order any drinks?"
Monday, 16 January 2006
cracks at the ciledug scooter day
I'd heard it going on all day. A punkabilly band on cheap equipment, cheap amps, playing the "Sepanjang malam, Pesta!" cover of the Rocket Rockers' cover of the '80s disco hit. It sounded like they were playing right there in my backyard, just behind the white wall with long cracks like my grandmother's hair, like veins everywhere, like dead snakes, and barbed wire like afros on top.
Wind carries everything, my maid said.
And so it did. The punkabilly band, happy covers of Benjamin S. songs (was it the wind too that carried Benjamin's chicken dance into my head?), the MC's voice telling everyone that no one needs a riot.
I'm happy the wind carries everything, I thought.
Wind carries everything, my maid said.
And so it did. The punkabilly band, happy covers of Benjamin S. songs (was it the wind too that carried Benjamin's chicken dance into my head?), the MC's voice telling everyone that no one needs a riot.
I'm happy the wind carries everything, I thought.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)