On Grief (In Memory of a Friend)

My blog has died for some time. I let it live once again, so my friend can also live once again – even if only for a short while, and for a few short paragraphs.

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His name is Hangga Brian Maladi. I frankly don’t recall how we finally became very close friends.

(I remember many things, but lost far more as I grew older.)

I knew Hangga from junior high school, but even then we were in different classes, barely interacting. And so it was in high school. And we went to different universities, cities apart.

But that’s what’s peculiar about friendship: what’s close in proximity may not always be close at heart. And vice versa. We started to nongkrong together, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Hangga and our group of friends are amongst the people who welcome me home on holidays, the people who can help me forget the toils and wretchedness of Jakarta.

Between us were countless sessions of billiard and nongkrong in angkringan, almost always include playing Capsa or Uno. And how can I forget? Our group often go east, to the direction of Lawu Mountain, where Hangga's home is also located. Tagging him along for angkringan at the feet of Lawu, for bakso bakar, and sate kelinci, and jagung bakar, and Kopimix, and the fresh, cold mountain air, and the serene view, and Capsa or Uno games, and the conversations.

The friendship. Always the friendship. A simple, unassuming, yet very valuable friendship.

As I grow older, I realize that the most fulfilling of friendship does not correlate with how many friends you have. And I am lucky to count Hangga as one of my close friends.

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I’ve lost a father who’d been battling chronic illnesses. As such, I had prepared my grief long before my father finally departed.

The thing with accident is that its suddenness gives you no time to grieve.

On that fateful day Hangga departed, 8 January 2024, I was just having my dinner after working overtime. As I was driving home, only disbelief was beside me on the passenger seat. I was stunned by the fact that a dear friend – whom I had just talked with only days ago – was no longer with us.

The grief came a little later.

You see, Hangga was a math teacher. And I often teased him with some advanced mathematical concepts that he had no familiarity of, despite him having more formal math education than me. (I know this is very silly of me, but close friends always tease each others for the silliest of reasons.) Nevertheless, we both share a similar concerns, on the declining mathematical aptitude of students, on the general state of education systems, on life, even on the not-so-serious stuff like the Premier League team we chose to support. (It’s Manchester United, to the woes of both of us.)

A few days after Hangga’s passing, Hangga’s wife, Anggi, shared us a story.

Amongst Hangga’s last moment in life was cleaning his bookshelves and his book collections. I forgot exactly what I said to him during our last meet up just before 2023 ended. According to Anggi “[Hangga] suddenly wanted to read more, to learn more.” Hangga then showed Anggi the books which I bought for him, and which our friend Ndaru bought for him.

Thus came the first grief.

Up until that moment I forgot I even ever bought him a book. The last gifts I remember giving him were souvenirs from Old Trafford. Knowing how much he actually treasured our friendship, our silly banters – what perhaps comes as a throwaway comment in my declining memory capacity – really teared me up.

In a way, I am envious of him. I am envious that he rediscovered his love of reading while I am losing mine; that he approached books with perhaps child-like curiousity, while I grew more cynical, like a grumpy old man who thinks reading books in a world which does not appreciate intelligence is a vanity. It breaks my heart knowing that it is I who will still be able to read some (even if only for a while, who knows?). I can only hope there is a library in heaven, much bigger than that of Alexandria, so that he can spend the rest of eternity reading things that he loves. Perhaps this was also his last hope for me, even if only indirectly: that I must find again the joy of reading.

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We didn’t meet as often as that time when we were all still single. Long holidays such as Idul Fitri or Christmas now become an exercise in juggling between families and in-laws. So it’s not often that our group of friends can gather as a full squad. Sometimes it’s just the three or four of us.

This moment, today, where I walked uphill to his grave was the time our group of friends could finally meet almost as a full squad. Almost, as everyone was there – except Hangga.

And thus came the second grief. And it teared me up once again.

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Hangga was a good person, a good husband, a good father, a good teacher, and a good friend. He was loyal, honest, hardworking, and eager to learn. His only flaw is perhaps in supporting a goofy club like Manchester United. And now I’ll be alone weathering the mockery amongst Liverpool and Southampton supporters that make up our group of friends.

I hope you rest in peace, Hangga, always, forever.

(These were the last photos that we took. Hangga was on the left most in the top photo, center in the bottom one. So mundane, so unpretentious. I didn’t even give two seconds to fix my ugly hair. It pains me that we will never know that each photo we take could be the last.)

An Ode to the Little Giant

There is not so much changes with you, with us.

We’re still the same, weather-beaten, rain-sodden us. We’re red dwarfs awaiting supernova implosion, burning through our last hydrogen atoms. We sigh into the onslaught by identical days. Far too exhausted for tomorrow morning stroll, just enough for waking up. Bound by tyranny of boredom and the confinement forced into us from some foreign, voracious, microscopic agents of chaos.

We are tired and sullen, the skeletal, spectral us.

As we get older, we drag our feet more. We started losing sight. A bleary vision. Stanzas of worry etched on our foreheads. The wound from ramshackle dreams latched onto our shoulders. Fragmented plans, shredded like the Oxyrhyncian trash heap.

The sun goes up and down like the most despicable clockwork. Older you be and you doubt more. (We all do, holding to that frail strand of hope that made thinner by day.)

Yet while I started giving up, you were always a snowdrop flowering at the first day of spring. Frigid wind above you, the small giant, adorable in your fortitude. Dawn gives you rain and you unfurl your petals, forever my raincoat for the storm.

Amidst all this cacophony you endure, you always manage to find some notes of symphony.

Today is the day when you get one year older, and us a year older. These days are dark, and there is no candle on the cake (there is no cake at all).

So come, let’s try be human once more. This I can offer you. Let’s sit together on the floor, imagining foreign places. Our banters be like fireworks. Let’s stay away from the edges of our bed. Let’s always fight for blanket, our nightly annexation game. Let’s exchange stories before dreams, before the day is done. Let’s eat badly, raw fish and third-rate rice wine and all.

Let’s cry, let’s curse, let’s... grow up together.

Let’s embrace senescence like an old friend. Let’s create a makeshift compass and a dim torch that guide us to each other.

For the day is dark, and there is no candle.

But you, you are always the only light that matter.

One

“ I found the one my heart loves. I held, and I would not let go...” (Songs of Solomon 3:4)

My thought wanders to a time long passed, almost a decade ago. A time when I started to be in love with this woman, Nitha. A time half spent in silent longing, while she had been another’s.

In today’s vernacular, I would’ve been called a “bucin.” A slave of love. Forgetting is so long, to quote Pablo Neruda. And five years of failing to forget was very enslaving to the soul.

There were nights when I think of her, or, to be more precise, the absence of her. Thinking that I was not with her, and to feel that I had lost everything that was beautiful to me.

There were days I masochistically watched Shinkai Makoto’s film, “5 Centimeters per Second.” The protagonist, Takaki Tohno, was a reflection of mine (perhaps also shared by many others). An image cruelly reflected by the black mirror. It was not the lost of love that broke me every time I watched that film. It was the lost of the ability to love again; the lost of the ability to move on.

It made me shudder: how many years should I spend before I am free from this torment?

After all, the heart wants what the heart wants. And the heart wants nothing less.

Nothing is perfect, that is probably true. Perfection, if any, is in the eye of the beholder. And Nitha is close enough to perfection for me.

When Nitha said to me that she broke up with her ex, my immediate reaction was befuddlement, instead of joy. After all, I have spent many a year constructing a temple around the idealized, imaginary persona of her. She was the idol, beyond my horizon. I was thus unafraid of failure and heartbreak, because how can I fail a relationship that does not exist?

But now, having a relationship with her, to be disappointed (or to be a disappointment), and altogether failing the relationship seemed like an imminent possibility.

But I decided to try. I demolished my metaphorical temple, to lay ground for a new reality full of imperfections.

Nitha is a strong-willed woman, often labelled herself as egoist. She knows what she wants, the way she wants it to be. If faced with 10 options, she will comprehensively evaluate the pros and cons of all 10 of them, while I will evaluate three of them and pick the best. She’s sometimes annoyed at me for not being thorough or lacking of initiative. While I am often annoyed at her picky nature –bordering on obssessive – and inefficiency.

For the last 5 years of having this free-form arrangement, we upped the ante. We wanted to see if we could tolerate with each other’s personal quirks, habits, and difference in opinions.

We started a trial we weren’t sure how it would end. We even weren’t sure how it started. Our “anniversary” was arbitrarily chosen at 20 October because I never properly asked her to be my girlfriend, and she never properly replied a “yes”. 20-10 seemed like a cute number and we went with it for years.

We tested ourselves whether we can set aside preferences and desire. We tried giving up individuality and the convenience of being alone.

It is of my great surprise that she tolerates my jittery and erratic decision-making ability. Without admitting it, she has sacrificed her ego for far too often.

Thankfully, we pretty much survived. We then braved ourselves to be tied in engagement, and then planned to marry.

We asked our friends why they decide to marry – especially for reasons beyond mere legality and religiosity. There wasn’t very satisfying answer. To be honest, we had no particular reason to get married.

One pragmatic reason is to satisfy the state apparatus and our families, thus keeping them from intruding what should’ve been our business and our business only. Indeed, had this country been like Sweden (or had there been no unconscionable draft of Criminal Code penalizing cohabitation), we’d just probably choose to live together. Tethered by hearts but remain unattached by the law.

So, why I think I ultimately agree to marry?

“Marriage”, wrote G. W. F. Hegel, “is a contract to transcend the standpoint of all contract”. Unlike regular contract in which both parties retain their abstract freedom, marriage is instead a mutual surrender of abstract freedom and autonomy to a higher organic ethical unity.

Gracy Olmstead expounded that marriage was never meant to be a vehicle for self-fulfillment, convenience, or pleasure. It’s an ethical bond to the other, for the good of the other. Marriage was never meant to satisfy every desire and longing of the heart. On the contrary, marriage provides discomfort. Heck, even preparing for marriage is already a frustrating and tiresome endeavour. Marriage indeed goes against every individualistic instincts.

On its surface, marriage is just a declaration made on the altar, officiated by the representative of God, confirmed by the state, witnessed and recognized by family, and sometimes followed by superfluous celebration. They are the “Big Others” as Slavoj Zizek wrote when he invoked his Lacanian legerdemain.

But marriage should not simply be taken as constraining. When the knot is tied, two hearts are liberated from the transient, fickle and purely subjective aspects of love. It is a liberation through self-restraint, which is rendered substantial by the something other than the self. Marriage is not merely a union of egoists.

These – the reference of marriage to something other than me, to selflessly love someone other than me – make a marriage is at least defensible for me.

And if I have to marry, I am sure as hell wanting to marry someone close enough to my perfection.

So here we are, after all these times, plunging ourselves deeper into the unknown future.

On 28 September 2019, Nitha’s birthday, we officially start our beautiful ride. I’ve made my vow to carry her home if she falls sick. To love her at the best of times and the worst of times. To stay till the world turns to oblivion and time unwinds to apocalypse. Till death do us part.

All these would not be possible without Nitha, who has shouldered an unequal share of burdens, who makes everything more beautiful than I’ll ever do. I solemnly promised I will do the dishes and the laundry.

It is of course unfortunate, however unintentional, that we’re married in one of the bleakest moments in Indonesian democracy. I personally hope the government and its citizens may unite once again in democracy, as Nitha and I unite in holy matrimony.

Please pray for all the good things in the best possible world for us. May the good things and our happiness today also extend to you all. You have our utmost gratitude.

Lastly, wish us luck. We’re sure as hell going to need it.

歩いても歩いても

They say 27 is the age when rockstars often die. We are not rockstars, although life has probably fucked us harder than any drugs imaginable. Most importantly, we aren't died yet. I think we are still blessed in that matter.

Getting older has its bane. These days, I forget easily. There are much to think, but there are less time to commit everything to memory. And in the process I threw away what is essential and kept what is irrelevant instead. Long gone are those times when we stop and ponder and marvel at the banality of our lives. But I am trying.

I know that in the eve of your 27th birthday you wanted to celebrate it in your own way – in solitude, trying to recover some quiet moments. So this time, in your absence, I try to mythologize all the strange roads that we once walked – supplanting the half-remembered nostalgia with an allegory of my own making.

I remember the walk we walked on one night on that alley where we found a kitten, lost and alone in the darkness of the bushes. You told be to throw a cat food that I bring in my pocket. You were worried despite my insistence that it would be fine.

Sometimes I think of us as the kitten. Astray, wailing for its mom. We think it won't survive. But help did come. It survived. The kitten turned out strong despite its apparent helplessness. And so as it survived, we survive.

You survive.

Because you are strong.

Sometimes stubbornly so.

I also remember that time when you once walked for a couple miles, under the scorching sun and the heat waves. Few hours later you were still able to dance it all away, with multitudes of strangers, on the dancefloor in the night market.

I once likened you to the bristlecone pine. A tree that thrives under the cold, harsh gale, yet lives longer than many civilizations. I still think that you are.

A bristlecone pine won't die at 27. 27 is the age when rockstars often die. I think I kinda know why. 27 is the forking path where you can no longer using youthfulness as an excuse. It's a prelude for a full-fledged, well-functioning adulthood. Things are getting more pressing. Societies are more demanding. New expectations are coming. The road that we walk will be harder, perhaps even more punishing. Some people try to resist this, and they crash themselves so hard they destroy themselves in the process.

But I know you are strong, strong enough to walk any road.

That's why I want to walk with you, to watch your figure from behind.

It does not have to be in a faraway land, or places that we dream to walk. I don't care if it's Coburg, or Shimogyo-Ku, or Ubud, or Santorini, or Setiabudi, or Gang Gloria, or Pasar Klewer. I don't care if blisters and cramps come as they may. As long as I walk with you. As long as I walk with you forever. As long as you are happy walking with me.

So, happy 27th birthday, N. May you always be happy on your every journey. I promise I will remember this.

The world gets older, N, and so must we. But if the world gets colder, we must not.

A Writing for a Birthday

Just like every year before, A's girlfriend, N, demands a writing for her birthday gift. In return, she will write one on A's birthday. Back then, A and N were separated for more than 900 kms, so exchanging gifts in the form of writing was more of convenience and budget-consciousness than a romantic gesture. But they are now in one town, already for two years. They no longer having to deal with the perils of a long distance relationship. Yet the writing grew to became a ritual. None of them weren't sure who decided this to be a yearly ritual.

It is better, A thinks, that N asks for a dinner in a restaurant or a handbag than a writing. Not that A is rich, of course. He's just a staff, a middle-class at most. Moreover the company A is working can only manage to achieve 50% of this year's target so A is expecting his wage to be cut in half. But A'd rather giving up his lunch to save for birthday gift than to write. He thinks he can no longer write.

Every time A looks at his laptop trying to write something not related to work, he feels numb. Years of writing corporate letters and mountains of data renders his mind bureaucratic, if not robotic.

"I cannot write anymore," said A to N on one lazy afternoon.

"Just write something about me. Something about us."

A looked at the wall, waiting for some divine inspiration. The divine inspiration came and told him of a trap question that's about to come.

"Or... is it that you don't know me at all after all these years?", N broke the silence.

The divine inspiration was right.

No, of course A knows N. Well, most of her. He knows her habits and quirks, her traits and personalities. He knows her family. He knows some of her secrets. He knows their stories together even though he's often forgetful. He knows what a decent boyfriend is supposed to know about his girlfriend. A just feels that telling her about her, repeating the same points and stories he's made in his previous writings is of no use.

A can write N a romantic letter – words of praise slapdashed with poetic phrases copied from Pablo Neruda's or Shakespeare's love sonnets. But the romantic era is over. At best his writing will be as cheesy as a double cheese burger designed to kill its consumer. N will laugh at his silly poems, and everyone else who happens to read his blog post will get eyesores.

A can also write their stories during this year in detail, like a diary of an obsessive person. He may try to write it in long, winding prose like that "great" Pulitzer winner Jonathan Franzen. But that verbose writing will more likely make N yawn, and everyone else who happens to read will probably think that they've just read a brickwall.

After a long meditation, A finally gives in to N's idea. He will just write something about her as usual. It's not that difficult. After all, they have some similarities. For instance, they both love eating and sleeping – the actual, literal sleeping, not the one involving nakedness and child-making. He remembers that one Sunday when the sun was so hot up high it was almost blinding. The road was reduced into a platform of dusts, with walls of torrid wind sweeping here and there. They were both hungry. But the heat that separated them with the food vendors nearby was too much of a hassle that they rather sleep away the hunger.

"Perhaps one day we'll die because of our laziness," N commented at that time.

"You know what's sadder than that?"

"What?"

"That those damn online news portals will cover our stories for days and turn them into profits."

"And your friends will make statuses of us, complete with hashtags."

Eating and sleeping are not marvellous quality. A thinks that they are the most boring hobbies that a child usually uses to describe herself on her biodata, besides reading. So he thinks of their differences.

He opens his laptops and begins to write.

"Frankly, my dear, I don't know how you could fall in love with me. I am even more confused how could we last for years. Back then, I predicted that we only last for three months. Why three months, you may ask. Three months is usually the time one realises that she's dating a jerk or she's dating someone much worse than she expects. And I think you couldn't pick someone worse than me, especially your other potential suitors were more successfull and better than I am..."

A proceeds to list their differences. He is sloppy, she is organized. He is so-so, while she, who always aims for the great things, is herself great. He is the armchair-theorising leftist whose best activism is sharing news contents online almost no one in his online friends actually pays attention. She, on the other hand, is a full-fledged disciple of capitalism, a proud corporate slave, and a devout Über (and other sharing economy apps) user. A lists several more but then deletes them, concerned that they actually gives N comprehensive reasons of why she should break up with A.

He looks at his laptop.

What to write for a birthday?

How to write good as a gift?

A remembers, long ago, a god apparently gave someone to be crucified as the "greatest gift for the world". One unknown man, inspired by this revelation, write about that thusly: in the beginning was the Word.

A begins to type.

"In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was with God. And the Word was Love..."

And the Love was her.

And that's enough.

 

Grim, Grim Birthday

20 years ago, there was the joy. There’d be fast-paced heartbeats, in an insomniac night of imagining tomorrow. The next day, there’d be presents and friends, and – even if perhaps there’d be no cake – a little, simple celebration. Fire of the number-shaped candle danced before the bright, wide eyes. The little soul inside was restless and couldn’t wait any longer. But he knows that he must wait for five more seconds, for there would be a mandatory prayer and wish-making before blowing it. Older folks used to say that it was one of the moments when gods were summoned, just like when a star fell from the sky. They said that gods would grant whatever childhood desires and dreams that went up with the faint smokes from the dying wicks. So the little soul complied and couldn’t care more. For him, today was more important than tomorrow.

But that day has long gone and died have the tomorrows.

The little soul in me is malnourished, awaiting demise. Sorrow lurks above, vulture-like, ready to consume whatever left from him when he transformed into just another part in the machinery of the capital and the state. There’s only this god-forsaken life in this god-forsaken city.

Now I see birthday as the day of lamentation. Grim is the day because life’s also grim. Another year has passed, and in that year countless of mistakes and bad decisions were made. But the more sinister part is that I can’t even know for sure of how would my life be if I took different steps or decisions.

Birthday is also a day of giving up. One year older means one less year of opportunities. One year older means one more year of wasted opportunities. It is painful, moreover knowing that some people managed to achieve things that I can only dream of achieving, at the same age, or even at younger age. That’s why it is the day to sort everything all over again, to see which ones that have failed or are nearing failure, and to toss them to garbage. Peter Pan was right when he refused to grow up. The loss of innocence in being adult turns dreams into targets. Targets turn into obligations, and obligations turn into oppressions – oppressions in the form of fearing failure. 20 years ago I still have this childhood freedom. Now I have to opt for stability again and again, which happens to bring along with itself mediocrity into my life.

All those above notwithstanding, I find the notion of celebration for the sake of feeling good as transitory, or worse, cosmetic happiness. Early Christians believe in happiness through humility and suffering, while Buddhists believe in happiness through detachment. In a sense, I share their views inasmuch I am no longer religious. In detachment, or in viewing the world through somber lens of misery I am able to see the reality, to demand for justice, to be critical of consensus. The maturity of thought is the only thing worth celebrating in being older. Hopefully, this year, I finally attain it, because I feel dumber and dumber in each year passed. This is what I will whisper to the candle, should I have one.

And I of course will whisper for she who loves a junkyard like me: a hope that may her love don’t taper into vanity.

May I become an old anchor, sunk in her ocean.

May I stay with her even in the worst of tides, and be drowned in her till the end of time.

Ah, what is birthday but a curse. Blessed are those don’t know how many years have passed, for they don’t have to mourn.

The Last One

It's been 18 hours since you sent your last message, an exact 18 hours of idleness and insomniac waiting. There's not so much for me to do than looking at the blip at the bright phone screen. Over and over I read your one and the last sentence for me, pondering whether this vague sense of eternal separation might finally come true in due time.  After all, it conveniently came at the weekend, when there's not so much works to run for distraction.

Of course, I've been thinking of going to the office which is within walking distance. There's internet (and with no one at the office I could use all the bandwidths for my pleasure). There's supply of cheap, instant coffee, too. There are also some security officers that may provide me with some uninteresting chats about football and silly politicians' antics that I would gladly endure just to kill time. But even these would not do much I think.
In the last 18 hours I've burned my cigarettes like a wildfire. I thought maybe if I burned this much I'd have killed enough brain cell to escape from you and your silence. Maybe if I devoutly burned this cigarettes like incenses I'd appease Father Time that he would come and save me. But there wasn't Father Time. There weren't dead brain cells. If any, this only gave me a bitter, raspy voice like Tom Waits on bronchitis.

This bedroom didn't help me at all. Whenever I tried to close my eyes, your image lingers permanently in my optic nerves. And so I decided to walk outside. The moon was a yellow slit not unlike a cat's eye. The sky was clear, albeit starless, with the air that bore a faint scent of mud from the last night's heavy rain.

Come to think of it, missing you is not entirely new for me. I still remember that day when you told me you were about to go somewhere that afternoon, in the coffeeshop by the airport.

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. I'm still deciding. Most likely, I'll go somewhere randomly. You will know by the time I come back."

"So I can't contact you whatsoever? What if something bad happen to you?"

"Of course you can try. I just can't promise I can answer your chats or calls. Maybe you will get the clue of where I am going from the pictures I post online. Maybe not. You should stop worrying all the time."

You went almost a week to an indigenous community on a mountain, beyond the east of our city, the place where the imperial sun rise always greeted by the vast sand plateau. You said you were almost made a priestess. You said you taught school lessons their children. You said that the potatoes there were the best you've ever tasted, and the afternoon serene, and the morning dew you've always met when you woke up was as cold as snow. You came home with a lot of stories, but without answering messages I sent you.

You were always like that, either not telling me anything or telling me everything; everything, the truth, and nothing but the truth. Telling lies is not your policy. Often, at times, I was left with either the pain of not knowing or the pain of sharp words of your truth; either restlessness or anguish bordering on the depression. I know this too well, yet perhaps still too weak-hearted to accept.

But your last message cut me twice. I didn't know what drove you to wrote that, and I know once you wrote that you really meant the truth, which was quite hurtful to swallow. Everything was so fine yesterday, two days ago, even last week or last month. And my attempt to inquire you the reason was futile until this very hour.

Strangely, I didn't feel like eating, too. My stomach was as aimless as my feet. 

I hauled a cab and went to the supermarket. It was nearby, thankfully the driver didn't refuse because it's too short of a distance.

It was fully roamed by people, flocking like ants near the spills of picnic basket. I was looking at the fruits when behind me came a group of adolescents. I heard one of them saying something about the pain of shopping with women and the time it takes. It seemed like the rests of the group nodded in affirmations.

Supermarket, for you, is not merely a place to buy things. It is a feast for the eyes. You could spend almost half a day in there, and you're also the one who taught me this therapy. You showed me that there's a child in us who finds her kindred spirit in candies and chocolate bars; that there's a calming happiness in the ordered placements of fresh fruits and the bright green faces of vegetables; that there's some ritualistic satisfaction in comparing the prices and qualities. Even there's a quiet joy in seeing some stuff that are actually useless to your daily life, like that bottle of extra virgin olive oil, or balsamic vinegar. Every time you touch it you can always imagine yourself, being a world class chef, babbling about fancy-but-quickly-made recipe on a cable TV show. It shows you something that you can always try, but not quite, because you cannot take the risk of wasting expensive ingredient on half-cooked, failed dishes. That ephemeral dream is the beauty of supermarket isles, yet also its charm — a hypnotic one, if I may say. I sometimes dream of this one specific scenario.

In my dream I was alone in the supermarket. Its isles gave me a task (spoken in the air, in silence that I could listen) to buy something of no specificity. I walked from one isle, grabbed onto something, thinking that this is the thing that I must buy. But it said, still in silence, that it was not that. So I went to the second isles, scanning, taking the next best thing I thought would suffice. But it was not that. And then the isles showed me a multitude of, if not an infinite, possibilities of the thing that I could try to buy. An ocean of supermarket isles laid before my eyes. Infinite. Unending. When I took the next one thing, the lamps suddenly went off, and the supermarket closed. The time was up.

Today it made me lost once again, not in the dream but in aluminum-and-concrete reality. In the end I only took a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes, never knew of what's best in there.

On the street outside the supermarket there were various food vendors. I sat on one creaky plastic cane chair while planning to make a decision. I found the food you really want to eat earlier this week. I ordered that food and ate it, even though the hunger was still nowhere. The taste was terrible. I imagined you would also said so, maybe even verbally express complaints, especially since your taste palate is much sharper than mine. I lit another cigarette and sipped what's left from the mineral water bottle when it dawned on me to look at my phone once again, trying to make sense of everything. I thought maybe I disappointed you in some way — in the sense that I am weak without you, in the sense that I am just a chunk of meat without you, and you didn't deserve this man in the form of me. Or perhaps you were trying to teach me something, that maybe in losing you I will finally find my strength. Or maybe it's that you are the wind, which can't settle in one place, always a wanderer. The time is up for me this time, and as the season changes, you will blow in the opposite corner of the world. The ephemeral dream may be over, and I have to wake up.

Under your last message is mine asking "Why?" It's still unread.

Happy Birthday, N.

What have the years give you, dear? Two before a quarter century, and I see you grow up seizing days after days. You grew stronger, and stubborn more. You have accomplished so much more than what I have in my own time. Proud and still starving for more.

I am sorry for not being able to write you exactly at your birthday. My energy has been, quite simply, siphoned by works. In your sleeping hour I tried to write last sentences, but the night was late and sleepy, and tranquil yet, because you were there, and I couldn't bring myself to write. Watching you fell asleep silently, veiled by the red wine sky, was more beautiful deed than all.

I'm sorry that I don't understand (yet) about your hunger; that in satiating your passions you're willing to sacrifice everything else. Past few weeks have we spent arguing, debating, being passive-aggressive toward each other, and I still don't understand. We are a ship and it was just a rough sea. And I am - or we are - still learning how to sail and tame the torrential rains and surging waves that may come.

I was never mad because you put me in any arbitrary number lower than what you'd give for your work. But I was mad that you'd even give up yourself - especially your health - to your job. It pained me to see you slaved by your job, because in you I see my own enslavement. I was weary, but not because I demand more of your priority. I was weary seeing you work really hard, almost too hard, almost as if that your very existence is tied to what you give to the altar of corporate gods. Waking up checking emails on your phone, eating lunch with your laptop, having dinner with your working papers, and the cycle repeats itself. Almost a ritual. You dash forward, running to be successful, ignoring your family, ignoring me, even ignoring yourself in the process. But then again, you are a bristlecone pine that can only thrive in harsh winters and hard soils. I will support you, and be proud of you.

And there's so many to remember, easily exceeds 23 things about you. Ramblings, discussions at the table, every words, every hugs, every little fights, every thoughts, every quirks, every accomplishments and disappointments. There's so much memories about you, becoming a path for me to return home. You don't need my writing to tell you how many wonders you've done in your life. In my life. You are a grace I dare not ask for. You are a miracle I dare not pray for.

You once asked me of how will forever be. Forever is too strong of a word. An impossibility. So now let me love you. Let me love you even when I hate you, even when you hate me, even when the smog of this city has taken away our radiance. Because love is the forever becoming the temporal. 

Finally, happy birthday, N. May the wisdom guide you through the dark years and the light years.

Happy birthday, N. And may we grow old together.

Two Faces

Everything was well according to the plan: going to Pasar Santa again, having lunch in its wet section, buying used books (and Dusty Sneakers' new book!) in POST, then watching a students chamber orchestra concert. Everything was even better seen in retrospect: to be able to chat and to mock cheesy soap operas with the jocular wet market tenants, also to be able to snatch awesome classic books in cheap prices. The orchestra was good, too, albeit with some tiny, tiny disturbances. One contra bass player's chair was squeaky, the clash cymbals' sound was no longer crisp, and one cello had its strings slapped the fingerboard, producing "flappy" sounds. I'm not an expert in classical music or symphonic orchestra. Hell, I'm not an expert on anything. So they were not a big deal because the rest of the day was too delightful to fuss about small things.

What's not in the plan was this one event, the second anniversary of a reading community in Taman Menteng - a community I was just made aware of by Teddy. (And again, Nitha laughed at my cluelessness about it.) The other option after the orchestra was to watch Guardians of the Galaxy, but why watch something that you can watch later - either legally or illegally?

So off we went, after grabbing a dinner and feeling a little bit posh about ourselves.

The community literally named itself Komunitas Baca-baca di Taman (KBBT). Unlike its straightforward name, its history is rather murky for me. Teddy said that it was initiated by some ex-punk heads there. They ditched their old lives, collected some books, and invited gamins to read every Saturday night. The first three meetings were held in Bundaran HI. They switched place to Taman Menteng because it's quieter, it has more trees, and it's less polluted here, unlike the traffic-heavy Bundaran HI. The community then got bigger and attracted the non-members or everyone who happened to be there to sit and read with them. They make events with tongue-in-cheek acronyms: BiR (beer) that stands for Bincang Ringan (small talk), KuDeTa (coup d'etat) that stands for Kumpul dengan Teman (gathering with friends), and a discussion session called MiRas (liquor) that stands for Mikir Keras (thinking hard).

When Nitha and I arrived, the anniversary celebration had not started.

"Let's play swings!" she asked me. I obliged.

We walked to the northern part of Taman Menteng where the swings located. I laid my eyes to the pyramidal glass house. I've been told that KBBT usually takes place in front of it, so it's likely that their anniversary was there, too. But still, there were not so much activities in its vicinity. Amidst the couples on Saturday night dates, parents bringing their kids to play in the sandbox, cigarette-and-instant-drink-mix sellers on bikes, and some teenagers playing futsal, the glass house shone brightly, illuminated the park and its dwellers. From afar, where I sat on my swing set, it looked like the third world version of Louvre pyramid.

Taman Menteng was previously Menteng Stadium, a football stadium belonged to Persija Jakarta. In 2004, under Sutiyoso's administration, it was planned to be converted to be a park (the plan allegedly date back even further, during Surjadi Soedirdja's administration). It was very controversial. Some individuals in PSSI reacted with disdain. It even almost led to a conflict that almost disband Persija. 30 billion rupiah and almost 3 years later, it was finally open to public as a park.

Ten minutes passed. I said to Nitha, "I think they are getting started. Let's go there."

And there they were. There was this modest make-do stage in front of the glass house, on the side adjacent to Jl. H. O. S. Cokroaminoto. One man, wearing striped T-shirt and three-quarter jeans, played two-piece drum kit. The other man, a middle-aged man with glass, played guitar. He dressed in white Tshirt with batik scarf around his neck, singing some folks songs. A banner in black color is tied in trees. It said happy 2nd anniversary, signed "KBBT - Komazine". There were two other stand banners in white, beside those two guys playing music. One showed KBBT's motto: "Mau Pintar Kenapa Musti Bayar?" (why must you pay if you want to be smart?). The other: "Bawa Buku Buka dan Baca di Taman" (bring books, open and read them in the park); complete with a cartoon of bourgeoisie-looking giant boar in suits and top hat, reading book while stepping on the protesting humans to death. Red stars and the anarchists' Circle-As adorned both banners. KBBT is apparently a redemption, an educative facility for street people, a society of sharing, and a protest to despondent government all at once.

The books were laid on a mat on the terrace of glass house. We looked around. Most of the ones who came wore black T-shirts. The books were mostly Pramoedya Ananta Toer's. And surprisingly, the collection was very extensive. There were Mangir, Larasati, Arus Balik, Nyanyi Sunyi Seorang Bisu, Perempuan dalam Cengkeraman Militer, Arok Dedes, Calon Arang, and of course, Buru Tetralogy. Among Pramoedya's books, there were several editions of zine titled Komazine scattered.

We spoke to a man who introduced himself as Uu'. His face, his long hair, and his stature reminded me of Indonesian young philosopher, Martin Suryajaya. Not that I actually ever met Martin, but his resemblance was quite conspicuous. He manages both KBBT and Komazine. He is Komazine's all-around writer, layouter, editor, and illustrator.

Komazine is an alternative zine with strong left political leaning. The name was derived from "koma" (coma), which according to them is the most apt depiction to describe this nation: in limbo, coma, neither life nor dead. Its life force has been sucked by the corporates and the corrupt governments, leaving next to nothing to the common folks. Komazine is even older than KBBT. When KBBT was born in September 1st 2012, Komazine already issued its 11th edition. It has 16 issues to date. 

"How often is it usually published?"

"It's not regular. We publish it when we're able to publish. The next edition, for instance, will have to be pushed back to October due to some problems."

I held one in my hand. It dated July 2009.

Visually coarse and crudely illustrated, Komazine hosts works and writings from Uu' and his friends. There are writings about social protests, critics to government, propaganda against capitalism. There are also poems and caricatures. And what excited me somehow were the writings about Marx and Bakunin. With all the limitations these people in Komazine have, be it educations, budgets, and literature references, they succeeded in transforming themselves into political educators for other people. This autodidact, guerrilla education is very, very admirable.

I asked if I can buy this one. 

"Well, I didn't bring copies with me. If you want that one we can make you a copy. We have Twitter account. Mention us the issue you want and next week we'll bring it to you."

"Do you have the one that is for sale?"

I grabbed three issues. The young man besides me took one.

"So, how do you know Teddy?" I asked.

"Oh, he just came here one night. And we just 'clicked'"

"He was with Maesy?"

"Oh, the lady? Yeah. She couldn't stand near here, though. She had trouble breathing. Those dudes were smoking. I wasn't. I don't smoke."

"She has asthma."

Beside being used to finance its future edition, the sales of Komazine are used to fund the maintenance of KBBT's books.

"Are you not afraid if these Pramoedya books are borrowed but not returned?"

"No. We have a strict policy regarding this kind of books. It must be returned in the same day."

Nitha then asked, "What happens if it rains?"

"Oh, we're gonna save the books first. We'll wrap them, make sure they're not wet. Don't care if we are soaked by the rain."

The guys playing drum and guitar "stepped down". The birthday party was about to begin. To my surprise, one relatively new TV station also came to report. After asking Uu' for interview and for taping the event, the crew asked me and Nitha to be interviewed. Both of us declined. Nitha said to me that it's very typical for a TV station to find the photogenic ones. Apparently my blob-like appearance was camera-friendly.

"Okay, we're kinda late actually," says the MC, "most of us have gathered anyway. So let us begin!"

Like the books, the stage and its music equipments were collective good. Several people took the stage alternately. Some sang Iwan Fals songs. Some sang their own song bearing the same message of protest to government, support for the labors, and demand for social justice.

One reminded us about capitalism: "The capital is only owned by a few people!"

"Go back to Article 33!" sang one. Article 33 of Indonesian constitution is about social welfare: common endeavor based on kinship principle, ownership of sectors of production which are important for the country and affect the life of the people by the country, and utilization of Indonesian lands, waters, and natural resources contained therein for the greatest benefit of the people. The song conveyed the restlessness of the common folks seeing this nation's resources being exploited for the interests of corporates and foreign countries instead of its own people.

Mbak Tari, one of the performers that night yelled at the end of her song, "The women must fight!"

"The women must fight!" cheered the crowds back.

Socialism, feminism, anti-imperialism. What's not to like here?

One man, said to be the "director" of KBBT then gave his speech. He explained the manifesto of KBBT and its "Mau Pintar Kenapa Musti Bayar?" maxim. He said, our education has failed. He said, our education has been commodified and capitalized. He said that our government is apathetic about education, even more to the marginalized masses.

"Makan sekolahan gak bikin pinter!" (School doesn't make you smart!)

"Ya iya lah. Makan sekolah gimana bikin pinter? Makan apa lo? Bangkunya?" (Of course. How can eating school make you smart? What do you eat anyway? Its bench?) The man in batik scarf took the literal meaning of "makan" (eating) to heckle the "director." The crowds burst in cachinnations.

"Makan buku, lah!" (reading book, of course!)

"Buku apa? Buku nikah?" (what book? Marriage book?) said another. Another hearty laughter.

"Marriage has been commodified by the country!" said the batik scarf man.

"Marriage is a legalized adultery!" I said without thinking.

He conclude that KBBT is here to take back public space for public use. For better use.

"The public place is ours too!"

Next performers was Petruk. He recited one of Heri Latief's poems. After him, Uu' came to the stage and read Latief's poem from the very same book Petruk just read. I admire this community more. We live in a short-attention-span generation; the age where its youths fetishize gadgets and pop stars. This is the age where posting something on Facebook or Path is trendy, and poetry and philosophy are considered vain exercises. In the age where the refusal to learn is epidemic, who knows that our one of the beacons of classical education is in here, in this small park every Saturday night?

"The stage is all yours! If you want to perform anything, perform!"

The event continued. 

"Wiro! C'mon, Wiro!"

Then one group consisting of one girl and two guys. One of them - the one wearing AC/DC T-shirt - I presumed was Wiro. They took the stage and began singing Serenada from Steven and the Coconut Treez.

Nitha and I sat on the floor. We were offered some snacks, boiled cassava, boiled banana, and oranges.

"No, thanks. We've just eaten."

I took an orange. And in a very socialistic manner, Nitha offered her Cha Cha. Some people took and shared it.

The man in batik scarf sat down near us. He introduced himself as Cibal, a member of Komunitas Kretek, a cigarette appreciation community..

"So do you know Mas Puthut?"

"Of course! We had coffee last week."

"Do you know Iqbal? Iqbal Aji Daryono?" Nitha asked.

"Yes! Do you study in Jogja?"

"Naah, I'm not. She is. In UGM."

The MC shouted, "Next, came far away from Tegal, he's gonna read a poem!" His name was Deni or Dani, I can't remember.

I whispered to Nitha, "He came far away from Tegal just to be here? Wow."

"No, you fool. He's probably from Tegal and has stay long in Jakarta." She laughed at my naivete.

Then we traded stories about our mutual friends, about Klinik Kopi in Jogja, about Komunitas Kretek and its Ekspedisi Cengkeh project, about how attractive clover was in Age of Discovery, about Magellan and Columbus.

"KomTek is not a cigarette lobbyist group. We're not from industry side. We are an appreciation group. Every May 31st, on World No Tobacco Day, we make tweets with #TerimakasihTembakau hashtag, providing counter-narrative," Mas Cibal narrated.

He then added, "KomTek Jakarta usually gather in Tebet. Do come sometime."

"I will come some time."

He went and chatted with other people. At one moment he teased a man who brought his Caucasian friend, "I love national products, not imported ones!"

They all laughed boisterously, except the Caucasian. The joke was lost in translation perhaps.
 
The musics then shifted from reggae to slow rock to bluesy-folk interchangeably. Most of them were their own songs, and the message about struggle remained the same. Two faces of music I listened that day. One was the classic that - while aurally sophisticated - was devoid from any resistance elements. It was pure art. The other one was unyielding voice of the working class. It was pure moving force. And I enjoyed both.

I looked again at the stage, at this camaraderie, at the grass root socialism in action. They have been down the street, joining the rally for the labors in Mayday. They even walked to Russian ambassador, campaigning for Pussy Riot to be released. Then I wondered whether our intellectual left ever embraced them. I never studied Marxism extensively, and I know that our lighthouse of the left in Indoprogress are doing very great jobs, but it itches me that our revolutionary movement has two faces. What can this writing, for instance, support our comrades in Komazine? It's too complicated, too abstruse, too pretentious to relate even for me, and especially for them. Mr. Ali Sastro beats me to it in his critic here. I dream that one day both of them can have discussions together. I dream that they can solidify our educational movements together instead of patronizing, or worse, becoming a left hegemony (which is an oxymoron). 

For about 15 years, with not more than four people (Vasily Ignatov, Vera Zasulich, Leo Deutsch, and Pavel Axelrod), Georgi Plekhanov's early works were dedicated to write, to theorize, to polemicize, and to translate Marxist works into Russian. It was almost unheard, and it was not without critics, too. He was accused to divorce Marxism from its mass acts. But without his writings - as Ted Sprague from Militan once said - perhaps there would be no Trotsky, no Lenin, and no October 1917 Revolution. Building the intellectual and theoretical building blocks is of course necessary for a revolution in a country, especially if Marxism is still in infancy there. Without theories, a mass acts will be a bunch of reactionary agent provocateurs incapable of rhetoric, shaky in its ideology. And I am guilty of it, particularly in last presidential election. Frankly, in a hindsight, it distressed me to vote for a president whom I am actually sure that he will speak in a neoliberalese language, instead of obdurately staying in principle. But both Komazine and Indoprogress are both basically trying to educate the masses. Political education is difficult, but writing something perplexing and out-of-touch with proletarian life is not going to make it easier either. Maybe in this I am patronizing, too, but I believe that Komazine can use some supports from good folks from Indoprogress.

Uu' said the celebration would be all night long. Meanwhile, my friend chatted me to come over to Jalan Sabang and have some coffee. I asked Nitha if she's okay to have some coffee. She said yes.

Mas Cibal said, "There's this one good coffee in Cikini called Kopi Tahlil. Pekalongan style. It's made with nine spices. Nine! It's across Holland Bakery."

"Nice! Thanks for the suggestion. Will go sometimes." We excused ourselves to leave early.
 
I said to Nitha while we were walking to the parking lot, "I'm happy."

"I'm happy too," she replied while smiling, "I'm happy knowing that you have something exciting to do while I'm out of town for two weeks."

I will make sure bringing books next time.

A Weekend in the Market

His name is Teddy, and he's one of the most extraordinary man I've ever met. He is my senior from perhaps the most boring college in this country, which is made to supply fresh kids for the most boring jobs in this country. But he is not boring, far from it. He was debating champion, he quit from his governmental job to work in Save the Children and now World Bank(!), and he's one of the most prominent voices of travel writing/travel blogging in Indonesia. Using the moniker Twosocks (perhaps a nod to Kevin Costner's film), he started the travel blog The Dusty Sneakers with Maesy, his wife, who uses the nom de plume Gypsytoes on herself. They immerse themselves in every journey, they feel, they touch the places' history and their people, not only to indulge in sensory perceptions. And such is their trademark, to write story, not some paltry tips or pretty pictures. When my bro, Gita Wiryawan, protested Kompas for not putting Lord Nuran Wibisono in their list of the most interesting Indonesian travel bloggers, I think that, damn, Teddy and Maesy had been subbed, too.

(For a side note, on September 10th they will launch their inaugural book: Kisah Kawan di Ujung Sana. I strongly recommend this book. If you don't believe me, go visit their blog, read their writings. Tell me if you're not interested with their stories.)

Last Friday, through his Facebook, Teddy announced the opening of POST on Saturday, August 30th, 2014. POST is a 2-kiosk-unit space in Santa Market, South Jakarta, designed for creativity melting pots. Everyone can use it for gathering, discussion, book launching, garage sale, whatever. This is a Christmas comes early for struggling indie artists and start-up entrepreneurs who find that capitalism has encroached rent price, since they can pay for using POST in any price they like. And the event for last Saturday was traveler garage sale.

So, in August 30th me and my girlfriend, Nitha, went indeed to Santa Market. It was hot and humid Jakartan midday. Luckily Santa Market is not that far from our places. We parked my motor and, luckily again, we met Teddy right away at the parking lot. Wearing Navy T-shirt and yellowish-dark beige shorts, he told me that he was almost going home to take care the then sick Maesy. But he decided to walk us into a quick tour inside.

Going inside, we strolled directly to second floor. Teddy explained that the lowest floor is the "wet market" (meaning they sell fresh meats, fruits, and vegetables there). The floor above that is akin to ITC, a shopping center for clothes, bags, shoes, and perfumes, mostly counterfeit or cater to lower- and middle-class. Only, it is sadder than ITC. And the second floor is where POST exists.

Looking at the metal roof beams above, I mumbled to Nitha, "It's like that Phillip Seymour Hoffman movie."

"Huh?" she said.

It was Synecdoche, New York. But I refrained.

On the second floor, there are the Japanese vinyl record shop named SubStore, a coffee shop named Bear & Co., another coffee shop called ABCD Coffee (this one is quite famous, I'll tell later), a fried noodle vendor Miechino, a glutinous rice snack seller,  a Germany electric cigarette shop named Snoke, another vinyl record shop named Laidback Blues, a nondescript second-hand clothing store, and of course POST. Most of them open only in the weekends and holidays. They were still closed when I came that day, except Teddy's place, which was full by the traveler garage sale attendees.

"They will open at 3 PM," Teddy said.

We then sat down near the stairs. Teddy proceeded to tell that Santa Market's second floor is now transforming into a creative space for youths, with artsy style. I gazed around and nodded with agreement. The exteriors, typography, and designs altogether seemed to compose a youthful ambiance. Perhaps, there's no more fitting place than this for Midjournal, a website for "cool" Indonesian "middle-class" youngsters (no sarcasm), which, according to Teddy, is about to open its office here. Whether Jakartabeat and Indoprogress soon to follow its steps is unclear, though.

On the back, some crews of a major news channel came out from POST. Apparently its opening already attracted exposure from major media.

It was still crowded with garage shoppers. And maybe still will for this month's weekends. There will be a pop up bookstore, a music appreciation gathering, and Drive Books Not Cars event if I'm not mistaken.

"You can use it for gathering and pay whatever sum you like. In fact, you can pay zilch to me if you're that shameless." Teddy said jokingly.

Teddy's friend, Joan, who was also a superb debater, stopped by to the place where we sat with a tattooed man whose name fleets my memory. I was not sure if he was a debater or not. I forgot if we ever introduced ourselves, either. The tattooed man joins ABCD Coffee course. There are four classes taught here, he said, and their first letters form the abbreviation "ABCD": appreciation, brewing, cupping, and definitive espresso. What's a definitive espresso, I asked. He wasn't sure what, either. We chatted for a while. I bought Yusi Avianto Pareanom's book which Teddy happened to bring with him. Then he said he wanted to go home to tend Maesy, followed with me and my girlfriend saying goodbye to them all, too.

"I'll be back here at 3. Gotta run some errands first."

"Sure!"

At 3 PM when we were back, the parking lots were already full with cars. I was amazed with these young people. My girlfriend was not surprised.

"[Things] like these are not rare in Jogja." said her.

"Yeah, but hanging out in a traditional market? How do they even know this place?"

"How do you not know about this place? It is already 'hype' and well-known, you know."

"Pasar Santa? Really?"

"Yep."

And our guessing was correct, it was full upstairs, too.

All the tenants which were closed were opening. Coincidentally, Laidback Blues' event, "Pasar Ajojing" also had just started. A significant portion of the crowds might be coming for this. Hordes of hipsters and indie-looking folks swarming here and there, wearing obscure band merchs (Dinosaur Jr.!), pop-culture T-shirts (Star Wars!), or floral T-shirts reminiscing of hippies, um, sorry, flower power generations of the 60's and 70's.

Nitha and I went directly to the aforementioned ABCD coffee. Unfortunately, they don't sell iced coffee, even when this place was choking hot and its air was under-circulated. The AC central was only a remnant of Santa Market's glory day. Yet, we relented, ordering a cup of hot cappuccino and a cup of hot piccolo.

Many people were also gathering near this coffee shop. We sat by makeshift stools made from reused wood planks swallowing regrets of not buying cold mineral water. Joan and the tattooed man were there. Tirza and Denny (both were master debaters as well) sat next to us. Above us, there's a wooden signage with "A Bunch of Caffeine Dealer" emblazoned on it.

"I was stunned, never thought I'm gonna meet debating dinosaurs."

"Nah, we're not. Bubu is dinosaur." replied Denny.

Bubu, along with Perry, Patsy, Arif, and Ruli are the ones who brought competitive English debating to Indonesia. They are the Adams and Eve of debating here.

About half an hour or 45 minutes later, Nitha's order came.

"Too much milk." she remarked. I agreed.

It's a kind of unique concept, actually. First, the owner, Hendri Kurniawan, does not have a designated supplier for his coffee. Hendri, who is a certified barista and international level barista competition jury, brings whatever coffee beans he bought abroad (or given by his friends) as the ingredient. Thus, the taste may vary in every time he opens this shop. (My piccolo, which came 15 minutes later, had acidic taste typical to Arabica variant. Too much milk aside, it tasted different from Nitha's, somehow.) Second, ABCD coffee opens whenever it feels like it, so it adds to the aura of mysterious artisanal quality it has. And third, a tip jar instead of a cashier. Again, like POST, you can pay in whatever price you like. This one supposedly conveys a message that drinking coffee is an experience of sharing. But then again, when car-driving people around you dropped 50.000 or 100.000 rupiah bill, dropping 10.000 rupiah will make you either cheap and/or shameless and/or not appreciative in the eyes of the crowds. The power of silent peer pressure will make this shop a lucrative income source nonetheless.

We were hungry, so we visited Miechino. This noodle vendor's sign, a circle with vertical line inside and triangle on a third from top of it, all in red color, reminded me so much of Harry Potter's Deathly Hallows symbol. It was, so far, the food and beverage vendor here that was good. It was not overrated when Teddy said that the noodle was delicious. Minimalistic, with a splash of kuah (watery gravy) and sticky texture, but delicious. In fact, with only 15.000 rupiah a pop, it might as well be a godsend here.

The speakers from Laidback Blues blared acid house and trip hop musics. How very fitting, I thought.

"If we marry, I want these kinds of music in our wedding."

"Okay, so, no Whitney Houston?" I responded

"Yeah. And no Perri... Perri, what's her name? The 'A Thousand Years' singer?"

"Christina Perri."

"Definitely not her."

"Sure. We will make our moms listen to Aphex Twin, too."

We saw Teddy again, this time with Maesy. We introduced ourselves, and then they introduced themselves to new renter beside POST. There I saw Teddy and Maesy, being the walking, living social glue, mingled with almost all the tenants; a nice quality that I secretly envy.

The multitude of people and lack of AC still heated this floor. I yearned for some cold, cold drinks. Bear & Co. was the viable option.

Josh Estey, the owner, was standing behind the counter explaining to Tirza and Denny when we got there. In front of him, was a metal pipe of silvery color emerging from the counter. It branched into two, similar to what you see in hydrant. At its ends, there were two valves, like those on draught beer keg. The left valve was for tea, the right one was for coffee.

"I just got the nitrogen working this very morning. I made this counter by myself, from recycled woods. My friend gave the wood to me." he recounted with pride.

"What's the nitrogen for?" I asked him. I asked because from what I remember from my waking high school time, nitrogen is an inert gas.

"Oh, it's to make the coffee foamy."

"And you infuse carbon dioxide to the tea, like soda?"

"Kind of."

I asked for iced coffee, with lotsa milk. Nitha ordered the tea. They were 20k each. Same price, because this was the opening day. It was until very recently that Bear & Co. had its decor completed. Friends and family helped him, Josh narrated while making our requests.

Nitha questioned, "Where do you get the name 'Bear & Co.'"?

"My kids love bear. Hence the name."

He handed our drinks in plastic cup. "Thank you, Papa Bear!", said Nitha fondly. Josh chuckled. What a jolly sight.

She glanced at me while we walked away, saying "You gotta learn skills like that." As a person prone to faux pas, social niceties is certainly not my strongest suit.

We sipped the drinks in our hands, and we were baffled. This tasted not like coffee and milk, not even coffee, or milk, or coffee and milk in unbalanced proportion, or if it was diluted by too much water. This is something else. And I tasted Nitha's iced tea. It was another je ne sais quoi that didn't taste either like its individual (lemon, ice, and tea) or combined ingredients. So that nitrogen and carbon dioxide had to do something, after all.

We looked at the cup. Nitha said that the cups were hand-stamped by Josh himself, he told her. I observed this flock of young demimonde and their air of retromania once again. And suddenly an epiphany came: this place is a new Mecca of postmodernism and hipsterdom in Jakarta.

Recycled wood planks, hand-stamped cups and business cards, traditional snacks, and the artisanal coffee are the re-adoption of the pasts and the rejection to modernism together with its boring, industrialist, mass-produced commodities. It's an imaginary resistance of course. And these hipsters - which is a subset phenomenon of postmodernism - ironically embrace the proletarian spirit through the lens of the nouveau riches - the elitist, bourgeoisie perspective that they have. Irony is of course an inseparable part of hipsterism; a movement whose complete definition is still elusive to us. Is it an insatiable quest of being different from the hoi polloi, even though it is "mainstreaming" already? Is to be hipster to reject the calling of hipster itself, a perpetual "not me" attitude? Are these people, who try to make sophisticated observational comedy sketches out of ordinary situations (but sadly sound like lame dad jokes) hipsters? Are Puthut EA and Arman Dhani, our own stalwart, intellectual writers, trying to "hipsterize" themselves here?

It came to me that hipsterism possesses both objective and subjective quality in it. First, they have to be affluent, or at least belong to middle-class. Second, they must be quite eloquent, educated, and internet-literate. Third, they have to display their "uniqueness" or contrarian stance in some point. It can be in their attires, their favorite bands, or their uncaring attitude (ironic, I know). These serve as a marker of hipsterism as a stratum of culture different from "genuine", lowbrow culture embraced by the low class. Beyond that, hipsterism steps on the subjective realm. Dialetheistically, hipsters are alike and yet different in their own way. A person who listens to Pitchfork-endorsed bands like Miami Horror (this is my girlfriend) is a hipster for me, whose musical taste is that well-known Radiohead (this still makes me a hipster, too, though). Another person who loves to listen to keroncong or dangdut or Indonesian 60-70's musics or an obscure band from Tanzania is a hipster for both of us. But you can't call a Pantura trucker a hipster for listening to dangdut, for, according to hipster, it's a proper musical taste for them. Hipsterism's outermost layer is accordingly a personal last step of Hegelian dialectics: the synthesis. It is after meeting the antithesis in the form of le grand Autre, the self suffered from lack (manque) to project her ego outward. The synthesis therefore manifests in the radically different self from the big Others: the hipster. A hipster is a hipster in relations to one's concepts about herself and one's perceptions of how Others see her. Of course, I'm pulling all this seemingly sophisticated philosophical legerdemain out of my arse, but where else can you drop Hegel and Lacan? (And am I uber-hipster yet?)

But what justifies the 200-300% mark up or so for the tie-dye scarfs, or the wee traditional glutinous rice snacks here, even though you can find similar products perhaps one floor below? And it saddened me, to see these two worlds collide in this market. Below, the dreary, weary common folks, tired from waiting for the next customer. A middle-aged lady fanned herself incessantly with a thin book due to hot air. A man fell asleep on the floor near his counter. Perhaps, the whole day was wasted without a single customer at all. It pained me to look at this sight of contrasting vistas from above here; from the place where the hypes, the creatives, the differents, spouting buzzwords and making merry in their apparent "profound" style and musical tastes.

But if you ask me whether I will come here again next time, I'd say yes. I will also buy loads of cold mineral water from a vendor a floor below, to wash away not only my bodily heat, but also the guilt of being privileged and a concern troll at the same time.