Offspring

Edie woke up at 4.30 am as usual, in the holy time before the sun rose, when the thread of light appeared in the universe. After shubuh she pulled out her special recipe book out of the drawer in the kitchen and rushed to the living room. Outside, the intimate contact between the angelical and material world was happening. Wind breezed and birds chirped on tall trees. Neighbors were awake and lights were on from inside houses in the complex. The streets were peacefully quiet even though some old people were in front of their houses doing their morning rituals: some doing tai chi, some warming up cars, and some meditating on their terraces.

This complex was not the same anymore. It had been years since elder was major group here. The rose-apple trees in front of Mr. Shahid’s and Mr. Abdul’s houses were no longer climbed by naughty kids. No more bunches of kids making noise or seen passing by after collective shubuh and Koran reading at the mosque. The street was so peaceful. Quiet.

Edie stared at her front yard through the inner layer of the curtain. She examined carefully every evanescent on the tip of each wide-leaved grass. They were so many, as many as the children that she never saw again. They were clear and pure as her children and many others of the neighbors’ had used to be. But they’d grown up and gone. She felt she missed those children, her children, especially, and a clear drop of tear fell from both her eyes onto the recipe book on her embrace.

*

(to be continued .....)

Deconstruction of Love

Rida passed away, indeed. Died. But for Jacky, she is still alive.

“I'm fine. We still keep in touch,” Jacky has been so obstinate, explaining to everyone that Rida is not dead. He keeps saying that there are other categories out of dead/alive dichotomy poles, which make him not sad, even though Rida has physically bound with the earth. Then, people - including me, call him freak.

I'm the one who's worried most about Jacky. And it's beyond worry, because it has come to the stage that whenever he reads out loud the final letter from her that consists, "..... I love you, Jacky," his eyes go all white, as if he were possessed. And I'm scared. For he becomes so cold to women now.

"You sure she loves you?" this question is finally said tonight. I said it just now, in a present tense, as if Rida as the third person is still alive. This is freaky. I'm freaky. Why not? The last one month I've been positioned in the strangest way by him. On this red covered bed ..... (to be continued)

Intuisi: Poems in Bahasa Indonesia

Intuisi (1)

Tersentuh dan jiwa mencandu
pada aliran sungai dan arah waktu
perjalanan sinar; nafas melanjutkan
ritmenya, kaki terangkat di kemudian
jengkal, suku kata tersambung
dan perasaan tertulis.

Mencandu dan jiwa tersentuh
pada hari kelahiran dan sebab akibat
segala masa; kisah dan cerita
bertemu di sini, pertemuan mengerucut
di sini, perpisahan melebar dari sini
dan sejarah terasa.
*

Intuisi (2)

Mendengar namaku tersebut aku lucu.
Terasa sedetik itu engkau jatuh cinta.
Pada tempat lain kau tak laik untuk temanku.
Hatiku bertanya-tanya bagaimana rupamu.

Lalu aku tak tahu mengapa tergiring ke sini.
Tertinggal sendiri menunggu satu jawab.
Dari tempat lain kau terantar ke depan pintu.
Hatimu berdebar-debar tentang mungkinkah ini.

Beri satu hari padaku,
beri satu hari padamu.
Padahal kita tak saling tahu.
*

Intuisi (3)

Betapa beraninya,
aku tak banyak tahu
tentang kemurnian;
kubiarkan tetap hidup
dan kujawab,
“iya,”
perasaan yang tersiram
oleh air-air malaikat
mengubah
pemikiran-pemikiran
memungkiri ragu.
*

Intuisi (4)

Dari layar kaca pada masa sangat lalu ketika hati masih murni. Dari cerita bekas negara Yugoslavia bersosok putra tersulung yang bijaksana, keluarganya sederhana bersahaja. Tubuh ini berkembang menjadi dewasa yang mencari entah apa dengan keyakinan yang sangat kuat.
Enam tahun kemudian di Amerika tersebutlah seorang anak yang ketika marah pada ibunya selalu termenung di atas sebuah batu tiga ratus meter dari rumahnya. Jatuh cinta pertamanya pada Kalimantan di peta yang ditunjuk oleh ayahnya. Lalu membenci Jakarta tetapi terdamparlah di Balikpapan, lalu Surabaya.
Wajahnya yang Eropa sebenarnya selalu berkelebat pada rupa-rupa kekasih-kekasihku terdahulu di Jakarta ini.
*

Intuisi (5)

Aku.
Dia.
Kamu.
Mereka.
Semua. Masa lalu. Cerita.
Alam.
Konspirasi.
Simpul.
Tali-temali.
Titik. Merajut. Membentuk.
Menepi.Diam. Menuju.
Ingin. Cinta.
*

(Jakarta, 24 Mei 2006)

Tuesday

Tuesday. The air conditioner and the warmth of the sun have invited a butterfly at the window. Taita feels so familiar with all of this. I’m back.

She opens wide the window and lets the little butterfly fluttering around the bedroom. She counts her sleeping hours. It is now noon; that means she slept for seven hours. Thanks God. She steps off the bed. Standing by the window, she can see a traffic jam outside.

At lightning speed, awareness gets back into her brain. She is very much aware of her presence on the twentieth floor of an apartment in West Jakarta. That she is behind a wall and there is a door that leads to the living room, kitchen and bathroom. She stretches and swiftly goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge and drinks a quarter liter of orange juice and a glass of water. Now, she is preparing for her weekly ritual.

*

Six months ago.

Tuesday. The same butterfly came for the first time when Taita just woke up. She ignored it and proceeded her busy day as a model and went for a photo session and fashion show schedule. The butterfly came again the next Tuesday, but she still ignored it for she had so many appointments. Six Tuesdays had the butterfly come to her apartment. On the seventh, she felt there was something special with the butterfly. Then she tried to change her schedule; she requested Tuesdays off. And the butterfly came again on the eight Tuesday. That day she felt an unusual sparkle. It unexpectedly turned up her mood to enjoy the life. So, she drank a quarter liter of orange juice and a glass of water. She turned off all electronic appliances, except the fridge and the air conditioners.

She suddenly felt like to shower her flowers in the vases. She did yoga and lighted aromatherapy incense. She hummed over Anggun’s first international album. She braised broccoli and boiled potatoes. She wore pajamas and did not bathe; she only brushed her teeth and washed her face. She tidied up her apartment and rearranged all the furniture. She then finished the broccoli and potatoes. All these were done in order and she was always accompanied by the butterfly. Until the time hit seven in the evening and she headed for her bedroom to close the window. The butterfly went away.

As the butterfly left, Taita reactivated everything, bathed and slept at ten after reading her favorite novels (she likes Milan Kundera; she has all of his novels, from The Joke to The Book of Laughter and Forgetting). And she was back to herself as a model, who was ready for the Wednesday schedules.

*

Until now, she still does the ritual. Only one thing wonders her: the butterfly is always the same, for she knows butterflies live through a short metamorphosis cycle – less than six months.

*
(Karawaci, 9 July 2006)

Triangle

Don’t know how, but I have finally realized statements in italic, instinctively.

Beware of your own soul. With the intention for clinging on to a long-standing and nourishing soul, you are required not to permanently occupy yourself with only one kind of personality in this life. Persona conundrum of your soul: once your character has fused and you’ve liked it, hence, you’d feel you don’t know how to stop it.

My name is Adel – a man with no end because I possess a personality, which is to live, dies and live again, then die again and so henceforth, continually.

Personality can construct an enduring noble relationship.

So, I married Sophi three years ago, upon sympathy.

Sympathy is a terrifying thing.

So, I was spellbound in an empty circle of marriage, hollow, unfilled. I wasn’t contained by it so it was so difficult to measure the limit and the breadth.

[Someone named Antiphon (+ 430 BC) tried to fill a circle with triangles.]

So, Indah, who was meant, by me, to be a Moslem, again, instead bestowed the first love triangle in my marriage with Sophi. In the beginning, the first triangle was carried upon my intention to fill the circle of my marriage, which was felt empty and unsatisfying. Sophi, since I had met her for the first time, hadn’t made me feel passionate. Sophi had never made me want the thing beneath those triangle-shaped panties.

Comparing myself to Rusdi – my coworker, I didn’t have to look for differences and draw conclusions. Rusdi was a depressed husband in his fifteen-year marriage, because his wife hadn’t been pregnant. His escapism was to state an erotic verbal agreement with many women with no feeling attached. His case was really a cliché story of a naughty husband, however his wife finally got pregnant. But I was an exception. Where on earth is a cliché containing such an episode as this:

“What is the meaning of Indah for you? To the last drop of your blood!!!” that was Rusdi’s know-it-all prognosis, answering his own question at once. So funny. I laughed out loud (in fact, I heard a warning and I was trembling inside). While concentrating on the possible truth of Rusdi’s words, I embarked on a protest, seemingly relaxed:
“Sorry, there is never a hundred percent love which is only for one person, from me. Everyone has to have their share, don’t they?!?”

I indeed loved Indah at the time. Our romance had even enabled me to theorize the love & galaxy connection:

Since I met her, since I understood her, I have loved her more and more. My heart has been the center of the movement of love – spinning forward with the higher speed whenever she gets closer. My heart is the earth; love is the moon and she the sun.

In fact, I never found the essence of my love to Indah. Sophi always waited at home and I felt pity. I finally ended my relationship with Indah.

Pity is a deadly thing.

This was the first death of my personality.

[First, Antiphon put in a triangle, then the remaining spaces he filled them with smaller triangles. The intention was to determine the width of the circle with the summation of all triangles’ width in the circle.]

*

Laras, who was meant to be a mere friend, instead didn’t know that I was married. What she knew: I was a young director in a unit of a reputable education foundation. I didn’t ever mean to lie to her. But there was never a bit of chance, since our first kiss, to reveal who I really was. Whereas, Laras had covered her whole heart with the flower blooms of love. There was no possibility for her to believe in the big enemy of her love: the fact that I belonged to someone else.

“You should tell Laras the truth, before you guys go further and deeper,” my personality lived again, because I realized again the emptiness of my marriage with Sophi. And it died again after I decided to gradually stay away from Laras.

[Instead of getting the width of the circle, Antiphon was caught in a big puzzle: he didn’t know when he could stop putting smaller triangles in the circle, since there were always remaining spaces.]

So, I kept placing another triangle in circle. My personality lived again. I, who was innocent as a white blank paper, truly didn’t realize that Leli was the third triangle bearer. She was indeed expected, but I never knew when she appeared.

White has a good personality.

“What haven’t I realized? What sin did I conduct that I am trapped in a great deal of these endless affairs?” I asked insistently to Rusdi, expecting an answer.
“You’re blank. That’s your sin,” Rusdi pointed his index finger onto my right temple.
“What do you mean?”
“Blank people like you never think of the results of their decisions. It’s like when you married Sophi upon sympathy, because she had been twice failing her wedding plan with other guys at the time. You don’t give her your love, instead you pity her. Thus, the remaining of your love keeps seeking an object. Don’t you remember when you said that there was never a hundred percent love, which was only for one person, from you? You said everyone had to have their share.”
“Yes?”
“That’s called irrational love.”
“And?”
“You think yourself, Mr. Einstein!”
My personality was in suspended animation.

[The Pythagoras theory to measure the length of the slope of a triangle, the length of the right angles are 1 (1 square + 1 square = 1 + 1 = 2): the length of the slope is the square root of 2. How much is the square root of 2?]

My love is the slope and the right angles are Sophi and my mistress. My love is something irrational because we can never define the square root of 2.

Now I realize there will be other post-Leli mistresses, even though I don’t expect it now.
My personality lives again to die again and live again, continually.

Love is indeed eternal. A love triangle lasts even when the sun is burning out and space becomes darker and colder, with its absence; the moon wrinkles as it falls into itself. A love triangle lasts even into infinity.

*

(Jakarta, 25 March 2008)

A Joke

Life is a serious experience for me. It involves determination and choice. Like when you were abused as a child and the next days ahead you had a yearning soul for the gentle touches of the abuse. You were traumatic and manifested such a longing for the full feeling between your thighs and the excitement of grabbing that thick long meat in your hand. You became determined and chose to live with it.

I’ve been very serious with my gayness. I have no doubt about it. Because all negative comments from those against us – gay people, always ends up a joke. At least we always have counter attacks to authorize our being in forms of jokes. One of them is that in the beginning God created human in three sorts of gender: male/female, male/male and female/female. Then God split them into halves and each half needed to find each other to reform the original entities. That’s what has made us.

I have my own defense. It was once said in a dream - I and my boyfriend were in China for a vacation. There we met an old guy who chewed us out because we showed intimacy in public during our stay in a beautiful villa near Shanghai. He said we shouldn’t be around straight people to do that; that we should only gather with gay people to do that. I was furious and yelled at him, “Shut up, Uncle. Mind your own life. Why should I care about what you said? I’m not bothering anyone, huh? And do you think you’re right? You never know the truth, old man. What if the truth is being straight is abnormal? What would you say or do? What if the truth is that we are supposed to be all gay? What if the truth is that we’re not supposed to reproduce? What if the truth is that the long known history of human being so far is not the truth? What if the truth is that it’s been all a lie? Huh?? Answer me!” And the old guy was speechless and I laughed as he went away.

Since then I’ve been more serious with my relationship with my boyfriend. I was more determined when one night before we went to bed, my boyfriend made me largely choose to live forever with him, by asking, “Honey, if we were women, would you take me as your lesbian lover?” I answered, “Yes.” And we laughed all night long.

*
(Karawaci, 9 July 2006)

Addict

Her name is consuming Tampa’s heart more and more. A woman, who was once of no meaning at all, now occupies the empire of love in his very soul.

Sukesih. She is the one who was speculated to be the gold mine. By the place, the time and the situation that have been such unpredictable, Tampa does not now care at all though the gold mine is left only as a dream. He has been turned to a brave man who endeavors the bitter love until there is no more condition in loving Sukesih. He is no more wooly by the question: am I lucky or wretched falling in love?

*

But on the tenth day of being separated from Sukesih, Tampa is starting to feel some unpleasant physical state of affairs. He is in Sumedang; confirms himself that he’s caught stressed. Not by the fear of being left by Sukesih, who is now in Jakarta; because that is out of possibility to happen. He instead is at the edge of his demeanor to cope with his immersion of Sukesih.

Cortical has reached an extreme level in his body now. He is worried about the decline of his brain power if it is all disregarded; his stomach gets chubby. But he is worried most about wrinkles on his face. Being aged is the most evaded thing for him. So, now he’s figuring out the alleviation.

“Try some jogging,” he is reminded by Opang’s suggestion; Opang is his best friend in the hometown.

That may be a good idea. But when Tampa is strapping his shoelaces, he kneels down, and feels his neck, shoulder and feet are inflexed. That is all because the chemical balance of his brain is distorted by the stress, so his muscles are retrenching. Tampa gasps, then is slowly rising to stand.

Now, he is holding to the door slope of his room. His feet should work by themselves to get out of the shoes with untapped laces. He turns around and towards into his room. The destination: the computer desk. Just when his butt touches the cushion of the chair, he feels pain in his head. The retrenchment of his neck and shoulder has moved about to the head so he is having now a tension headache.

Oh, God, how could I jog? Oh, Sukesih. When can we meet again? I am so tortured by your one-month program.

Tampa buffs inside. He nearly cries. But he’d done so many mistakes by not obeying Sukesih’s advice when they were still side by side, and situation got to be chaos since then. Now, he is trying to stand a bit longer and just believes in what Sukesih wants – one month separated.

All Tampa can do now is placing his right hand on his left shoulder. With a circling motion he’s trying to find his pain spots, then strongly presses them while counting to thirty and releases the hand. He is doing this repeatedly. Still his head is dizzy.

“Tampa, here’s a glass of milk for you,” he has no idea when his mother came into his room. He is for a second shaken. His mother has been behind him. She puts the black porcelain mugs on the CPU.
“Thanks, Mom. You knew I was awake?” Tampa’s hand reaches the mug’s ear and pushes the mug to his lips.
“I heard your alarm. You’re going jogging?”
“I cancel, I think,” he cancels to drink. Now he feels pain on his jaws. For that, he whines.
“Why?” his mother bents over slightly, trying to examine Tampa’s face.
“My jaws hurt,” while holding his jaws, Tampa gets up and slowly pushes aside his mother’s apprehension. He feels like a sick boy. But in this kind of situation, his mother’s apprehension is a bit relieving. At least he’s aware that his mother is one of the things that he still got, beside Sukesih.
“Better rest. What’s the point of exercise when you’re being sick?”
“Yes, Mom,” then she leaves him alone again in his room.

As his mother’s gone, Tampa makes a fist and holds it under his chin. Then he opens his mouth while restraining the movement of his jaws with the fist. He counts to ten and the pain lessens. Now he sits on the edge of the bed. His legs still feel tensed. He tries to softly massage his calves, the heel to the knee. It goes fifteen minutes and he falls asleep.

*

Eleven a.m. Tampa wakes up, still in a sport outfit - a white badminton short, a white basic tee and khaki socks.

He gets up and is unable to sense his own thoughts. Even to recognize his own mind, he is so doubtful. He can’t decide what to think now. So, he wanders around in his 4x5 room. In his mind, Sukesih’s face flies and fades, Jakarta Map glidingly shows and fades. The dark and light of a discotheque and the crowd of people inside are blinking then fade. He can’t focus, he can’t concentrate. Then his phone is ringing. Doubtful again, he reaches his cheap hand phone on the desk.

“Opang”. Oh, My God. Tampa barks at himself inside. He’s just remembered that he had an appointment with Opang. He promised to accompany the best friend to Bandung, to find a boarding house. Opang is a Bandung hotel school graduate and will start working in one of the hotels there the day after tomorrow. “Hallo, Opang. Sorry, I just woke up. You may come now. I need to shower first,” as he hangs off the phone, Tampa takes his socks off and right away goes into the bathroom. Inside the bathroom, he exhales deeply, slowly, and feels his rib cage expands in every breath. When he feels a bit more relaxed, he starts the bathing.

Eleven thirty. Opang has been waiting for Tampa changing clothes in the room. Wrapped in a tight white shirt, a black leather jacket and a blue jean, Opang hands in a rolled newspaper to Tampa. “Look at the ad today. Do you know where it is?” then Tampa starts examining the classified ads on the column of “KOST”. Tampa frowns, for normally he can read clearly in a natural distance. Now he has to bring the newspaper closer to his eyes so his can read those little letters on it.

“What’s wrong with my eyes? Mmmh, I know where this street is, though,” after an attempt to reduce the width of his pupils, he can read clearly. “Ok. Shall we go now?”
“Let’s go.”

*

When Opang’s car reaches Cileunyi area, Tampa’s ear keeps buzzing. Not for a long time, though. Then Tampa feels on edge, restless and is unable to focus to the conversation with Opang. This causes short and shallow breaths, thus his body is lack of oxygen. That is why he’s been always yawning during the trip. He also belches a lot. And Opang is amazed by the circumstances happening to his best friend. “What’s wrong with you? Still infatuated with your girl? Relax, man, one month is short. We should have fun here,” Opang now seems to understand what’s happening to Tampa. When they arrive in Bandung and have paid the down payment for the boarding house, they spend times inside Bandung Indah Plaza and stop by the food court for lunch. “What will you have?” Tampa takes a minute to decide what to order. He feels his heart beat is faster than normal. He as well feels dryness in his throat as the result from the heavy thoughts that makes his saliva lessened.

“I’ll have Black Forest and a decaf, I think.”
“Sure? What’s wrong with the soft drinks? You’ve always had soft drinks.”
“I’m being stressed out. Thus I suck more air. To prevent hiccup, I should skip the soft drinks, milkshake and gum for a while.”
“Right! Up to you.”
“Opang, please remind me later to buy Isotonic drink. I began sweating. You know, when you’re stressed and sweating too much, your muscles may have cramps,” so it is. When he’s home, Tampa changes his shirt for his adrenaline gets boosted and his armpits stink. His feet are cold, wet and weary. Then he opens the cupboard and gets an antiperspirant spray that he usually uses for his armpits only. This time, he sprays it to his feet as well. When he’s gulping down the Isotonic drink, Tampa feels the muscles of his lower back are strained for sitting too long today. Then he stretches his legs forward and tries to reach his toes with his both hands. He holds the position for ten seconds. But at the third try, his stomach puffs up. Yes, it was ineffectual having a decaf, while there was hidden caffeine in the Black Forest. So, Tampa goes hurriedly into the WC.

There is no excrement, only a clamorous of bubbling sound in his bladder, followed by a warm hissing fart. And, he can’t urinate.

*

Day 28. This means he’s been separated from Sukesih for 672 hours. The reason that Sukesih suggested was that they should’ve been able to equate their love with each of their personal interest to steer clear of foolishness that happened a lot to them. And Tampa has just realized this today. He’s collected some money to resume his small business in Jakarta, which is candle making that was derelict by his togetherness with Sukesih. The money was collected by selling the rest of the products in his hometown. But his addiction to Sukesih stays. It’s been three days he’s caught flu, for the stress has made his immunity deteriorate against virus.

*

Day 29. Flu has gone out of his body. All the circumstances in the previous days have disappeared. Because Sukesih suddenly showed up at the door, saying, “I’ll start working in Sudirman area next week,” and Tampa can have his erection back, for his narrowed blood vessels resulted from psychological effect and anxiety, have restored.

*
(Jakarta, 17 February 2006)

Untitled

He had been wondering how couples – including he and his life partner, could go back and forth from affection to disgust continually. He had seen how his mom and dad yelled at each other one certain night and be intimate again the next day.

When love is withdrawn by tensions, what can you cling to? That’s when the light dims, and what’s to open up your heart? The feeling is in suspended animation, like the oak leaves falling down, windblown, floating unbearably, then touch the ground, tumble down to the earth. Dries and cracks.

Like today, the fury surrounding him at the time he stepped out of the interview room couldn’t bear the quake in his being it would let gentleness temporarily out of his logic. He felt hopeless about the job he was applying for in that hotel. He broke cheerless and rushed out of the hotel building to meet his life partner at the nearest shopping center. But he couldn’t call his lover for the exact meeting spot because both his mobiles were out of power. He wanted to cry.

However coped the appointment had been after he seek for his lover here and there and finally found his lover looking at a directory board over the south gate, they couldn’t avert fighting after his lover replied by asking simply to settle down when he said he wanted to cry.

He wanted something, which he didn’t know what, to perk up. He couldn’t put up with just a plain advice from someone who he thought loved him the most. The ineffective interview preparation and the crazy drilling interviewer had dispirited him and released his ego towards only his self. Nothing satisfied him, but being a bitch could.

But it is love that keeps you making one’s day.

And Aunt Jeannie once had said to him that it was some magic words in the moment of magic that could beckon love home again after a journey beyond comprehension - to permit your person to be celebrity. Like now, that he suddenly felt he had become rational again when all rages in his mind halted and he was steered to deeply look into the sunflower in his lover’s eyes with the usual fondness; right after he unconsciously asked his lover, “Are you okay?”

And they again gave each other lights in the dimness, like the flows of river sprung from an endless fountain. They again gave each other staying power and serenity for restless souls; gave a sense for every pace, a belief that they be not futile.

*
(Karawaci, 3 July 2006)

Dreams are Hundred Times of Reality

Oh, how I have been deluding myself! But I have been having a series of dreams; dreams of a knight on a camel. He was so manly but wearing a chador. He appeared on the horizon in a desert that I don’t know. In the next second, followed were tens of camel riders; they were knights, too. They were manly but in chador, too. How I was so muddled. I thought I recognized his body.

I came towards him. It was impossible for me not to recognize him. Didn’t my heart know by heart the way he contained himself, every of his move? I felt I loved him, and love had instincts, I knew.

Now I was beside him. I would greet him. But my lips were cold. Besides, it would be useless to greet him. Knights are usually so quiet and speak a little.

Lucky me, at a moment his camel was going down. A breeze revealed the corner of his mouth. I saw the knight was me. That was my first dream. On the next day, I packed my things in my big suitcase. I intended to go back to my home town.

I had the same dream the next night. When I woke up, I packed my beauty case and put it on the bed. I planned to give it to Rita.

I had another dream in the following night. There I saw my son. We stood face to face. But I hesitated; was he really my son? And in the afternoon I worked harder than usual in that new building construction. In five days I intended to propose Rita. But no one knew about this, even Rita didn’t, either.

One day passed. I went through it listening to Sonia grumbling, “Holy Mary, queer is a hard work. This see-through dress had me bones hurt. Those stripteases earned me twenty. Hey, I had dreams and I met my prince handed me two-grand to shop. I guess dreams are hundred times real life. Pity me!”

Four days gone. The doubt I had about myself and my son grew. I couldn’t afford going back to my home town. My saving was never enough. So, I unpacked my suitcase. The see-through dress, tank-top, mini skirt and camisole, I put them back in the wardrobe. I unpacked my beauty case, too. I combed my wig again. And I still go to the construction in the afternoon. Sonia was right. Dreams are hundred times of reality.

*

(Jakarta, 8 July 2006)

Puja and Pujo

My name is Puja.

Oh, I know that name. Puja was once a superstar to all ladies in this discotheque. My name is Pujo, a very devoted guest here.

I heard about Puja from Puji – my girlfriend. She said Puja was extremely gorgeous. I perceive her words right now.

But ….. why has Puja come to me?

Tonight. In this discotheque. At this corner. His physic appears in front of my very eyes, when I have just pointed upward, after my figment of imagination. Glasses – empty and half-empty, scatter on my table. Long Island, crème de menthe, cola and ice cubes. Ashtray and water pitcher. Oh, these glass thingies stay in my sight they make Puja look see through like a clear crystal. I touch him and he feels supple.

My name is Puja.

So, this is Puja.

Come and sit, Puja. Why are you greeting me? I am with some friends. They’re there on the dance floor. They’re bopping like substances solving in water. They’re merging in the same music, as entities with assorted solving intensities. Some are sad, disappointed and bemused. Some are happy and gone too far. Why have you greeted me, Puja? Do you know me? Have you heard my heart? I’m on the edge of a fall. Puji is marrying someone else. In one week. Have you ever felt this? Be my new friend, Puja. I need one tonight.

Her name is Puji.

Oh, Pujo and Puji are not a matter of chance. And now here is a Puja.

What triangle can suit us, Puja? Do you know Puji – my girlfriend whom I am thinking of as a bitch?

Puja and Puji.

Everybody knows?

Then Puja appears distinct as human. Human is made of clay. So real next to me. He is not attached to anything. His feet are half an inch from the gravity. He is floating. But I feel all right. Maybe it’s my vision biased by the darkness of this discotheque. Whatever.

Puja and Puji made love.

Everybody knows?

Why not? They’re the most beautiful of all here. I wonder.

Oh, you’re Puji’s ex-boyfriend, aren’t you?

Puja and Pujo. Sitting side by side. Why isn’t there who wonders? Or at least surprised then smile. Isn’t it strange that Puja’s talking to me? Ah, maybe it is run of the mill that Puji is a play slut.

Puja, why did you break up with Puji?

His name was Pujo, said Puji.

Puja flow tears. Strange tears they’re not dropping down the chin. They stop at the lips level but keep flowing endlessly.

Oh, Puji deceived you, too? She was having an affair behind your back, Puja?

As now that she’s going to marry this Puje the Balinese.

Gosh, what happened to you then, Puja? Tell me! I really want to know! ….. Puja! Puja! Where are you going? You haven’t told me. What happened to you after the break-up? …… Don’t take too long in the toilet, please!

*

Oh, crème de menthe. Hi, long island. Keep me company. Where are my friends? Where is Puja? Should I look this down this long?

Damn Puji! The ecstasy of your body, Puji, can never compare the frenzy of you slicing my heart into pieces. My too pure heart. The heart, from a parish, that hangs a strong meat for your abyss. Puji, oh, Puji, should I call you a bitch when your face is an angel’s?

Ah, those hopes! Your body, in which I often thrust; why isn’t it gone? Why becomes a fire? Oh, long island. Hi, crème de menthe. Why are you like gasoline? Aaaaaakkkhhh! Ppppt!

*

Mmmh, this smell of floor cleaning agent; and my body is moving on a carriage. Oh, they’re doctor and nurses. Hospital. Dawn. The calling. Yes, the calling. Mmmh! P-p-p-p-t-t-t!

*

Wow, so bright!! But I don’t feel blocked. I am floating straight on a reality like a limitless universe with the brightest light ever. I am wrapped by an oval clear membrane that so softly tremors and has so many strains connected to the spots all over my body. Points where all the moral fibers originate.

I don’t know why, but I feel so worried every time a strain escapes from its spot, one by one. I feel so much pain each time.

God, the anger and the pain are the only ones that stay. Their spots are on my most upper part. I am hurt and furiously angry. Aaaaaakkkhhh! Pyaaarrr!

*

The fact is that the universe that I thought limitless, borders with where I am now. I am walking on a cloud. Everything is cloudy.

Hey, that’s Puja! Puja! Puja! Pujaaaaa!

"Where have you been?"
"Pujo, at last….." slowly the conversation fades away. The wind freshly blows it’s drowsy. Chimes ring: tring-tring---tring----repeatedly.

*

(Tangerang, 2 October 2006)

Spit On the Floor

And he spits on the floor upon his belief that touch-wood is not the right charm against his boyfriend’s curse - they will always fail living together. The dinner is neglected; the candle flames are blown out by a sudden murmuring wind from the window ajar in the dining room. The dimmed light blurs his vision as he stares at their big photographs on the wall in the living room. His boyfriend has gone upstairs and practically won’t talk to him for days, and he shall sleep on the couch for the time being.

He looks at his own spit on the floor: the bubbles burst slowly. Then he recalls what he just heard, “…..don’t you ever think of a marriage, because we won’t work it out, period.”

The dribble melts with no more bubble. And he knows he’s hopeless.

“Boy, you see now, huh, marriage is a disaster. Don’t you ever think of it,” years ago when he was only eight, his father said it to him in the middle of a fight with his mother. He could just stare at them, not knowing what was happening. He just felt hopeless; he just wished for some peace in the house that day.

“Spit on the floor!” his mother yelled at him. “For God’s sake, don’t let what you heard happen. Spit!!!”

And he spat on the floor, not knowing why he should. He only knew he was hopeless.

*
(Jakarta, May 18th, 2006)

Whacking Father

Anton swings his right pinky and I come towards him. That’s how people call me, “Jay”.

*

My father is a person with tentative temperaments, but that has made me a person with an inevitable temperament. When I was in secondary, I had seen him very vulnerable, like a sinner who didn’t let go of his domestic power. He often looked silly and nauseous, like a person who knew things but abruptly denied his knowledge for the sake of pride. I didn’t know why he was like that. All I realized was that I felt so angry at him; for my mother was let down by him. But I didn’t know what to do with my anger. My father was too slick to handle or tackle. And I didn’t want to make my mother sadder. No one could help me, so no one could disturb me when I was angry. I would be extremely quiet until my anger settled down.

One day, to my very big surprise, he slapped me.

I didn’t know what I felt inside but I had been saving my money to buy an ATARI game cartridge – Joust. I wanted to wrap it with the best paper and tell this very handsome boy in my class to catch it in the farewell gift exchange session. And I would ask him to let me know which one was from him, so I could take it. I meant to give each other a souvenir in a very beautiful way. I also hoped we could go to the same high school after graduation; this was my only hope since I was not that close to him compared to other boys in the school, I was a nerd who obviously stalked him after school.

I didn’t know how to describe my feeling when I knew the cartridge was taken by a girl in my class. And I got a bottle of vitamin C, which was definitely from him. I just kept being extremely quiet and went home, locked myself inside my room and took all the tablets at once. And I didn’t know what happened next.

My father slapped me in the ears when I was back from the hospital. He pointed to my diary – filled with the name of the very handsome boy. The last time I saw him was when he kicked me out of the house the next day; I couldn’t hear what he said.

*

I have been ignoring Anton like a normal person pretending not to hear what he said. Still, he keeps trying to melt my heart with his fucking wisdoms about how you should treat your parents.

His right pinky now feels so abusive. That’s how people call me, indeed. So, I rush towards him. I don’t sign this time. I don’t care if he’s the one who raised me up twenty years ago. I scream so loud, grab his collar and push him to the wall. And I hit the wall repeatedly; hoping that he understands that so far I’ve been saying, “STOP! STOP IT!”

*

(Jakarta, 21 July 2006)

La Dolce Vita

In a cozy jazz bar called La Dolce Vita in Jakarta, the music started to keep up the beat because it was already two-thirty and the regular jazz performance had ended. Normally in La Dolce Vita, people would act elegantly even though the ambience gets a little wild when they are all tipsy, but they keep in controlled mannerism toward each other. Hook ups would, of course, be legal, but they’d all appear so discreet.

That night was somewhat different in La Dolce Vita. A distinct mortal in a form of a visibly young gay boy was a rare highlight in that place. He was not only very loud cheering enticing compliments to every guy at the bar counter. He moved so wildly, lively but people could tell he wasn’t even drunk. He also looked glowing in that bright white sissy hem and tight washed-out blue jeans. He was the center of attention that night.

In a corner near the entrance, two guys looked so cautious, watching the boy. One had whiskey coke in his hand, another had margarita. They recognized the boy as an odd from another place – a most famous discotheque in Jakarta. They knew the boy was in his typical act, so they kept alert.

“It’s him. Never thought he’d be here,” the margarita guy said.
“Mmmh,” the whiskey guy smiled.
“I hate him.”
“Huh? You hate him?” the whiskey guy frowned and looked at his friend.
“Ya, I hate him,” the margarita guy turned his hand up the air, dejected.
“He did something wrong to you?”
“No. But the way he acts.”
“Hey, man. He’s just doing what he likes,” the whiskey guy looked uncannily at his friend now. He had seemed a little cautious of the boy’s act earlier. Now, he appeared curious of his friend. “Are you gay?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I said are you gay?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Why do you hate him?”
“I don’t like gays.”
“Homophobic ….. Sure.”

The boy was approaching them. The margarita guy passed up toward a couch behind them. He looked so nervous. He sat and put his glass on the table. The whiskey guy turned around to see his friend. He mimicked a ‘why’ and raised his shoulder. When he turned back, the boy was already in front of him – dancing, seducing him with a run of fingertip over the chest. The guy smiled, lifted his whiskey glass to the air and served the dance to the boy. He then held the hip of the boy with his free hand. They danced erotically. The boy screamed, “hot dog!!!” People turned to look at them now. The cheering shouts got on track. The ambience shifted to an outrageous scene. The jazz bar became a place with no judgement.

Minutes flew. The whiskey guy looked a little exhausted after some crazy moves. He came to his friend at the couch. He put his empty glass on the table, waved to a passing waiter and ordered another whiskey coke. Then he sat beside his friend.

“Sandy, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I hate him. That was no decency.”
“Hey, this is a place for freedom, you know?”
“It’s a jazz bar, Randy.”
“Yes. So, what?”
“I came here for a straight bar scene.”
“You think a straight bar scene must be decent?”
“At least there shouldn’t be any gay there. I shun them.”
“Oh my God, what are you trying to reject in this life?”
“Homos.”
“Man, are you gay?”
“What?”
“Come on, man. Get out of the closet. We’ve been co-workers for a year. We should’ve known each other very well, right? I’m not gay. But I don’t mind a gay friend,” Randy smiled tantalizingly at Sandy.
“You’re insulting me,” Sandy stood angrily. He almost bumped an approaching waiter, who brought a glass of whiskey coke. By that time, the gay boy came up and said, “Lovers at a fight?”
“Shut up you, faggot!!!” Sandy pointed his finger to the boy’s face.
“No. I know who I am, dear,” the boy pushed aside the finger in front of his face and turned away, swaying his whole body as if he had finished performing and had to leave the audience. He walked away to the dance floor with his left hand on his hip as if he was on a catwalk.
Sandy dropped his body on the couch again. He looked furious.
“Calm down, man. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you,” Randy tapped him on the shoulder. They looked at each other. Randy smiled, but Sandy looked back fiercely.
“I’m going after I finish my drink,” Sandy reached his glass. It was empty. So, he grabbed the whiskey coke from Randy’s hand. He sipped slowly and closed his eyes. Something calmed him down, but he still insisted in going home.
“Are you sure? I’ll stay.”
“Yeah, up to you. Bye. See you on Monday,” he stood up and straightened his shirt, then headed for the entrance.
“Ok, bye,” Randy said powerlessly.

Being left alone, Randy finished his drink, sitting on the couch. He looked around and found some people had been staring at him, maybe they noticed what happened to him and Sandy and the gay boy. He suddenly looked crestfallen like being aware that something long buried now came to touch his senses again. He sighed and approached the small dance floor without his whiskey coke. He tried to find the gay boy and finally saw him in the very center of the dancing crowd then went to him.

“Hey, baby, wanna dance some more?” he asked the gay boy.
“Nope,” the gay boy refused and kept dancing without even looking at him.
“C’mon. I was a hot dog, right?” he tried to grab the gay boy’s shoulder.
“Hey, mind your attitude,” the gay boy threw out the hand from his shoulder.
“Playing hard to get, hey boy?” now he held the hip of the gay boy from behind. He was about to tease the gay boy’s left ear when suddenly he got an elbow thump on his stomach. The gay boy turned around and got his left arms grabbing Randy’s neck. He slapped and pushed Randy away. People stepped aside. Security guards seized the gay boy and dragged him to the back side of La Dolce Vita. Randy held his face and stood stunned in the middle of the crowd, watching the detention of the gay boy.

Some things hastily and heavily gleamed over Randy’s mind. He still stiffly stood there feeling a sting on his just-slapped chin. He slowly looked over the crowd and seemed to be making a move as if the gleaming was fading to the same extent with the diminishing pain.
Suddenly Randy ran out of La Dolce Vita. Sandy! He thought about Sandy. He snatched his hair as if feeling sorry for an inanity. He thought about going to Sandy’s place. He wanted to apologize and say that he now knew and something mutual.

He ran and only ran with only Sandy in his mind.

*
(Jakarta, 7 April 2008)