i went to plaza semanggi yesterday, walked around, gramedia, a&w, sox gallery, woku, oh la la for an overpriced aqua, that tiny magazine stand in the corner, then i started thinking, oh my god, (and i still don’t believe in god, i’ll have you know, not for anything, i just can’t be bothered devising an apologia for a half-arsed agnosticism), and i almost can’t believe it, (you’d better believe it, buddy !), i was actually extremely happy for long stretches of our doomed relationship.

celibacy is overrated

sex is underrated, nobody ever says that anymore
sure, sometimes i’d just like to have someone to hug
in the backseat of a taxi putra
on the way home, or out, as luck would have it
but no luck! the lights on those abandoned buildings are cold
they’ve been cold for a while, as cold as the stars
that make up the constellations of sorrow
on my fingertips
long may they experience the electric softness
of the hair on your arm
but no such luck!
cause sex is underrated
and i never get it!

usher

half an e at 8.30 and off we went
to a wooden birdcage

men half-raise whisky glasses to someone elses’ faces

so bright!

another half at 10
we can’t afford lulls

in the eternal search for fun

the things we look forward (to hate):

the inevitable midnite fashion show on top of squeaky clean bar tables
no amount of make-up can wipe out the frightened smiles on the models’ emaciated faces

their masks of gay abandon

turn off the bright lights
put on leif erikson!

“i am balan
i have come from chennai
to a magical place where dragons fly
(so i’ve heard)”

i am so sorry to have disappointed you

let’s go home and stick our heads in the air-con

yer hands are cold
mine are pins & needles

time for an eccy scratch

yer back or mine                                        O GREAT FUN

gutted

it’s raining. again. i like it when it rains. or maybe i don’t. it’s nice, how the water slushes away all the dirt, rotting banana leaves, indomie wrappers, swallow sandals, off the streets and into the gutters. except there are no gutters, so they’re all on the streets.

i’m in ciledug and i have to get to benhil in about 30 minutes. that’s like going from the 20th arrondisement to le premier. except there’s no métro, no taxis when it rains (theoretically there is an express taxi pool in jombang, 10 minutes away from my house, but try it, try dial 57990707, if someone picks up on your first attempt, you can have this blog), and often i see the bright orange transjakarta buses carve through the legendary lapis legit-thick traffic of jalan ciledug raya, but i often have real conversations with my dead grandmother, too. at le versailles. while enjoying the sights of exhausted tourists seeking refuge at the jardin du luxembourg.

not that i mind catching the s69 metro mini to singgalang and then a taxi tarif lama to benhil, or a c01 kopabun over the kebayoran lama fly-over, jumping off the back of the curving suzuki carry at the velbak u-turn, and then try not to get decapitated while crossing the road at pakubuwono by the same s69 going at the speed of light towards blok m—the imminence of death only makes me feel even more alive.

it’s just that when it rains everything is so slow. like you’ve got mud on your shoes. you have got mud on your shoes. the city is prettier, you know, like cole porter said, ‘it sizzles in the dry season, and it drizzles in the wet season.’ i prefer drizzles over sizzles anytime. but when you have to get to places, like me today, like in life, rain is not your best friend. more like a cling-y boyfriend that holds you back.

this city is like a cling-y boyfriend that holds you back.

and i’m the monkey taking a leisurely ride on his back.

crazy for jalan ciledug raya (but not that crazy)

it’s night. and i’m listening to magnetic fields’ 69 love songs vol. 2. tonight there was a mysterious body of water on the road in front of pasar cipulir. looked like an oil spill. or jeremy thomas’ hair.

not much traffic on ciledug raya. the formula goes (commuting, going home):  5-7, better stay at plaza senayan, gawk at sasak-ed hair the shape and size of giant beehives. or the standard beehives of giant ronnie spectors. 7.30-9, kinda like the ticket line at a megadeth original-member reunion concert, we are so old, but it’s moving. 9-10, it’s when the mbak-mbak plaza senayan kiss the hands that they feed (ie, husbands/boyfriends/random first, second, third cousins waiting on their motorbikes outside) and cruise along the 10 or so kms from hang lekir to pos/lurah/caplin/etc at the speed of light (if light was a snail).

tonight, i went post-10. in an express taxi. with a crazy driver who ranted about female busway drivers who «obviously have poor eyesights and are unfit.» i gave him a 5000 tip. don’t think he’ll spend it on a pre-loved copy of jurnal perempuan.

after the rain, ciledug raya looked beautiful, beatific. where’s the pope? we want canonization now!

and if you wonder about the missing 30 minutes after 7, then obviously you don’t know how much hair product goes on jeremy thomas’ hair. that thing is like a black hole for brisk’s entire product line. you think time can fly over it?

heart and curios

Everytime he goes to the restaurant he would go to the dilapidated toilet with no toilet seat and take a piss standing up and stare at the LINDETEVES sign painted on the water tank.

Or, more like L NDE I EVI S.

The sign has been painted over so many times, presumably with the same salted duck-egg colour, it is less a sign than a palimpsest.

Then he would go back to his table, pick at his beef strog, the creamed potato mash on the rim of his compartmentalized metal plate (what jail am I in?), the always al dente cauliflower, the icky bottle of Lea & Perrins worcestershire sauce, and he would feel so tired.

He is so tired all the time.

This city looks so tired all the time.

This city is like an old dilapidated toilet missing its toilet seat.

This city is a palimpsest of the idea of a toilet.

With real flesh and blood people getting flushed down it clutching at their tired paper hearts.

Paper turns to mush in water.

jakartah kumuh tercintah

on a cloudy like like today i always think of this bit from a sitor situmorang poem:

jakarta

kumuh

tercinta

can’t remember which poem, but that’s the whole stanza. he being mr. coy modernist and all. where did you hide pound’s personae, eh? i can see it bulging out of yer shirt pocket!

(it’s ‘beloved / decrepit / jakarta’ for you pasarayaman.)

now that i’m writing about what i think about on a cloudy day like today and not just be in it, i think about this too, and this, but when i only have my mind to think about it is

jakarta

kumuh

tercinta

that i think about.

because this has a tram in it; i’d start thinking of aminah cendrakasih singing and bobbing her way around the other passengers/backup singers in asrama dara and flowers would bloom in my head.

and this is in menteng, where flowers still bloom everywhere.

i have to make do with

beloved

decrepit

jakarta

i think of when i meet new people and the first thing they’d ask me would be, ‘what are ya? batak? chinese?’ and then it hit me, hey, you wanna run away too,

but you’re still here.

and that’s when flowers bloom in my heart.

Jolly Jolly Tropical Boston Tea Party ( A la Maison de Thé à Kebon Kacang depuis 2008 ) : Messrs. Twinings, Lipton, Pickwick, Dilmah étaient AWOLs, the bastards !

here you go clovique, mademoiselle
i’ve laced that cup of darjeeling with two acid tabs
would you like some scones to go with that?
i’ve baked them in the shapes of a heart
broken in three
oven fresh
crushed thyme and jacky’s babies in the bread pudding
savouries in sweets
let’s make the tips of our tongues go
tingly tingly hoppy hop o!
don’t worry, that’s not too much butter
on your cucumber sandwich
just an extra layer of love, monsieur univers noir
to go with the liquid e
in your hot chocolate, care for two balls of melty marshmallows
to dunk in your lake of sorrow?
tante anya, welkom
i know you’ll get blackouts from even a little pot
so i’ve strained you a special brew of hashish
it came with a magic carpet you can take away
on your witches’ getaway, don’t forget to pack a torch
to shine on yourself when danger, a vampire, or really
just a general feeling of helplessness beckons
edophilippa, don’t worry lah, haven’t forgot ya,
just stay in the corner, wait for your gingerbread men
i’ll make one with slits for eyes, tiny ideas of breasts,
and a pretty a-line skirt one can only get in senen
or portobello market, whenever love is in season
danarski, where are ya? ah, there you are
step into the spotlight, that’s where you belong ma’am,
no curtains for you!
oh hang on, don’t be such pigs, not yet,
let’s put our heads down
and pray to the lord above
our father who art in heaven
hallowed be thy name
thy kingdom come thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven
give us this day our daily bread
never starbucks it’s too milky and expensive
nor oh la la it’s undrinkable
excelso’s cappuccino toraja is the best
but i don’t wanna push my luck
we’re pretty happy with what we’ve got now
d’ya hear us o, yoshi(not)mi, my lord of sweetness & light?

(later that afternoon: « tea-master bitch ! vous m‘avez abandonné ! »
tea-master bitch (wiping sleep off his eyes) : « pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle,
le thé et les amitiés sont la chose la plus dure à maîtriser ! »