manzania

friday night is a slow fanta

                            sy!



of pretty chinese girls in i-ta
                                        suki
of brilliant remembering of
                                     SMP years
of clean-cut dismembering of
                                               the edges
of different circles:



i put
my heart
on an escalator going up

Ode to an Esmod graduate

O my brilliant Esmod graduate!

Intimidate me with yer knowledge of crushed velour!

Of dandyism that begins at the waistcoat and never ends at the spats!

I envy yer débutante graduate show!

Yer interplanetary glitter!

Yer second-hand, much-loved, half-baked

Idée fixes

Of glam

D’or!

I envy yer year at Central St Martins!

Yer 3-month residency at Marc Jacob’s brie-smelling workshop

Next to that patisserie tunisienne in the 20ème arrondissement!

Yer too many cigarettes and shared jug of citron presse at La Rotonde

With that adorable

Best-of-his-peers

Graduate from Esmod Windhoek

Sunny Namibia!



O my beloved Esmod graduate!

You of the high cheek-bone and strong jaw-line!

Make room for a piece of me

In yer slashed, vintage, stylist’s own

Physician’s bag!

Lord Byron, where hath thou been

Di antara segala macam digresi yang kau paksakan
Hamam di 18ème arrondissement, sate onta Beduin
Harem di pabrik kertas Slough, naik tobogan macan
Sestina guru yoga, Wordsworth yang seperti Mimin
Dengan jari dan ujung rambutku aku bisa merasakan
Di balik ottava rima-mu yang mulus seperti beringin
Sebenarnya kau hanya ingin menancapkan hati
Di pucuk lilin yang menyala di kamar kosmu di Trinity.

Brilliant disguise (so not)

Restoran itu punya semacam Hindia Belanda chic, dengan pelayan2 tua berambut klimis, berjas putih dengan trimming merah di kerah dan ujung lengan yang menyembunyikan daki, piring logam berkompartemen yang tergantung dari film apa saja yang menemani anda waktu remaja bergaya kafeteria sekolah atau penjara, dan poster2 kaleng bergambar menu2 makanannya circa Pemilu 1955.

Tak ada AC. Hanya beberapa fan yang berdiri di pojok2 ruangan yang berdinding kayu seperti manekin telanjang.

Siang jam 2.

Paman Gembul duduk di salah satu meja yang bertaplak kotak2 merah putih dan berlapis plastik, di depannya beef stroganoff yang sudah beberapa menit ia aduk2, sebotol bir besar yang berpeluh, dan sebungkus rokok Gaulois yang belum dibuka.

Sudah setahun ini Paman Gembul makan siang di sini setiap hari Sabtu. Lebih baik daripada siesta sendirian, pikirnya.

Paman Gembul sejak kecil selalu punya fantasi hidup sebagai sinyo dengan nyai2nya. Rijsttafel buat makan siang, kemudian dipijit nyai2nya sampai ketiduran.

Sampai setahun yang lalu fantasi Paman Gembul ini sempat terpenuhi. Dia bertemu dengan Bibi Titi Teliti di sebuah party di Kemang, dilanjutkan dengan ngiprit semalaman, dan berakhir dengan breakfast pizza dingin dan Coca-Cola di kos2an Paman Gembul di Menteng Dalam.

Sejak itu mereka bagai alis monobrow. Tak bisa dipisah.

Seminggu setelah mereka bertemu Paman Gembul bilang kepada Bibi Titi Teliti tentang fantasinya. ‘Ajolah, akoe djadi Jan Boon dan kaoe djadi Njaikoe, koeberi nama kaoe, Njai Ogoh2.’

‘Nyai Ogoh2? That’s a ridiculous name. Don’t be stupid. Gimme a grande dame old name, like Ontosoroh, or Sanggramawijaya Dharmaprasada Utungga Dewi. What about that?’

‘Batavia boekan poenya orang Djawa, Njaikoe. Bagaimana kalaoe nama jang lebih nétral sadja, seperti Germaine Greer?’

‘OK. Asal belikan aku iPamper untuk memijatmu.’

‘Tabik, Njaikoe.’

Jadilah sejak itu setiap Sabtu (karena di hari2 lain mereka harus kerja, dan di hari Minggu mereka harus makan siang bersama keluarga) Bibi Titi Teliti akan menyiapkan rijsttafel dengan srundeng, sayur lodeh, cumi woku (‘Aku diimpor ke Batavia sebagai budak dari Manado’), dan susu nihorbo (‘Terserah aku’), mereka berdua menyantapnya bersama di depan TV di kamar kos Paman Gembul yang lapang dan ber-AC (2,5 juta per bulan), dan setelahnya Paman Gembul akan tengkurap di lantai di depan TV yang dingin sambil punggungnya menikmati getaran iPamper di tangan Bibi Titi Teliti yang memainkannya maju mundur seperti Hoover sambil nonton TV.

Tidak lebih dari 5 menit Paman Gembul akan jatuh ketiduran, Bibi Titi Teliti akan melanjutkan nonton Nip/Tuck di DVD, atau Paman Gembul tidak ketiduran dan menyadari betapa Bibi Titi Teliti mencintainya dan dadanya akan penuh dengan gelombang samudera, ombak pecah, kapal karam, dan dia akan mencabut kabel iPamper yang menyelip di bawah tangannya dari tembok dan dia memeluk Bibi Titi Teliti sekuat tenaga dan mereka kemudian bercinta dengan kasih sayang dan nafsu yang sama-sama besarnya. Atau kadang2 Paman Gembul akan bangun dan yang pertama kali dilihatnya adalah wajah Bibi Titi Teliti yang mendengkur lirih pas di depan mukanya. Saat itu dia akan tertawa dan membelai rambutnya yang jaguran.

Sampai suatu Sabtu siang setahun yang lalu waktu Paman Gembul pulang ke kosannya dari mengantarkan manuskrip kumpulan puisinya ke rumah Laksmi Pamuntjak di Wijaya, dan di situ yang dijumpainya bukan Bibi Titi Teliti yang sedang memindahkan cumi woku dari rantang Beautika tapi lemari pakaian yang pintunya terbuka, isinya kosong melompong, dan sepotong kartu pos bergambar Monas dan Hotel Marcopolo yang di belakangnya tertulis, dalam tulisan tangan Bibi Titi Teliti yang rapi seperti gigi peri, ‘Aku bosan bermain nyai-nyaian.’

Sebulan setelah itu Paman Gembul tidak pernah keluar rumah. Dia hanya menonton Taufik Hidayat menang Olimpiade Athena, berkali2 menonton Dogville, dan hanya sekali2 mencoba menulis puisi. Tapi susah sekali. Rasanya seperti ada kereta api tanpa masinis berjalan pelan di terowongan antara kepala dan dadanya. Tanpa jadwal dan di gerbong Eksekutif-nya hanya ada satu kursi yang berlumuran darah.

Sekarang Paman Gembul duduk di depan stroganoffnya yang berlumuran telalu banyak Lea & Perrins, merokok Gaulois yang terasa seperti kardus di mulutnya yang bau bir, dan memandang ke luar jendela lattice kawat yang membatasi dirinya dan jalan Gondangdia V yang menyerap panas lembab seperti cawat.

Panas lembab yang mengalir pelan menggoyang poni Paman Gembul yang berat berkeringat. Senyum simpul menyerobot mulutnya yang sedari tadi hanya garis coklat. Di kepalanya terlantun nada sebuah lagu Bruce Springsteen dari album Greatest Hitsnya yang kata Bibi Titi Teliti, ‘meninabobokkanku waktu hatiku digergaji pertama kali,’ dan yang sampai dua minggu lalu chorusnya ia pikir berbunyi:

IS IT YOU BABY, OR JUST A BREEZE IN DISGUISE?

Le misérable

Di sebuah taman kecil di seberang Notre Dame aku duduk di bangku batu

Di sampingku sekantung pita bread berisi falafel, tabouleh, beberapa biji zaitun

Sekaleng Orangina rasa sitrun

Mereka harus menunggu

Di tanganku buku tipis Remembering William Carlos Williams, NDP811

—James Laughlin, seorang penyair medioker, tapi jujur

Membaca surat pertama yang ditulis Bill setelah stroke-nya yang terakhir

Susah payah dengan satu jari di mesin tik

(buat Flossie, istrinya):

‘Dear Floss thank you for everything
forgive me   I always loved you   Bill’

Buku itu lepas dari tanganku

Jatuh di tanah yang berwarna krem dan sedikit basah sehabis gerimis

Waktu kupungut pojok-pojok buku itu telah menyimpan secuil Paris

Beberapa butir pasir, bulu merpati, dan air yang membentuk danau gelap di kertas kuning gading

Secuil yang akan lenyap

Sebelum lonceng berdentang tanda makan siang

‘Tis clear thou art a loon

The aim of yer chosen passage
Of charming masks and bergamots
The joy of Lot and a quasi-dance
The sadness of yer fantastic disguise

Chant in yer minor mode!
Love is vain and life opportunistic!
The air, the cross, the magic hour
The son & a mêlée on the moon

The calm air on the moon is full of tears, beautiful
The river, birds, trees & the sangfroid of ecstasy & jets of water,
The grandest jets of waters
Svelte as Parma marbles.

– translitic of Paul Verlaine’s ‘Clair de Lune’

‘Tis clear thou art a loon

The aim of yer chosen passage
Of charming masks and bergamots
The joy of Lot and a quasi-dance
The sadness of yer fantastic disguise

Chant in yer minor mode!
Love is vain and life opportunistic!
The air, the cross, the magic hour
The son & a mêlée on the moon

The calm air on the moon is full of tears, beautiful
The river, birds, trees & the sangfroid of ecstasy & jets of water,
The grandest jets of waters
Svelte as Parma marbles.

– translitic of Paul Verlaine’s ‘Clair de Lune’

William II of Akron

william t. vollmann caught the last plane to jakarta from akron, oh.

not a direct flight, of course.

nothing flies direct out of akron, oh.

he landed at the soekarno-hatta international airport when it was still missing all its toilet doors.

there were pools of urine and cigarette butts in the bottom of the urinals, perched higher on the wall for white male caucasians though of course william t. vollmann, being a white male caucasian, didn’t notice this.

having caught a damri bus to gambir, william t. vollmann walked the short stroll to jalan jaksa which, he thought, would be like a mini pat pong.

it was nothing like pat pong.

he booked himself into a deluxe room at losmen eskol (ice cold!) and ordered himself a whore from the bellboy who was really a fifty-one year old man named samuel.

the whore had dark, perfect skin and was perfectly efficient.

she offered to bathe him before they got into bed and william, that’s what he asked the whore to call him, said yes, okay, agreeing that after a 27-hour non-direct flight, he was a dirty man.

when the whore went home william felt the same emptiness he felt in akron, oh.

it felt like there was inside his chest a funeral cart carrying an oversized coffin draped in old glory, drawn by twelve black belgian horses, and everything was moving really really slowly.

to get rid of the emptiness william went out to dine.

it was a saturday night, or perhaps early sunday morning, and he ended up at a noisy 24-hour pâtisserie.

there, being a gregarious, chatty traveller, william met aldé, an assistant stylist for the indonesian idol, and a pretty boy with curly hair and dark skin that reminded him of friday, yes, crusoe’s friday. friday didn’t say a word the whole time william and aldé were laying down foundation for a friendship that will last less than a lifetime.

aldé said that this girl priska was the prettiest though she couldn’t sing but that one of the judges promised she’ll at least get through to the finals if she let him suck her big toe while she urinated in the cramped backlot toilet after the “spektakuler” show.

that’s all he wanted and that’s all he did!

aldé said and william and aldé both laughed and friday stirred his warm coca-cola with a black straw that doesn’t bend.

are you planning to fuck friday? asked william. they were speaking in english and william was taking a chance on friday not being able to speak it.

or speak at all.

no. let’s go. said aldé.

aldé got up from his seat (a metal chair with rattan back), bent down, and whispered something in friday’s ear. his hand cupping his ear and his mouth so he couldn’t see or guess what he was saying.

friday swung his backpack on his waifish shoulder and walked away.

i will take you places william, i know that’s what you long for, but not tonight. longing is good. but longing on a large scale is what makes history. you of all people, should know that.

they shook hands and both disappear gently into the good night air.

william walked back to his losmen room with a half-aborted idea of a book in his head and a million butterflies in his stomach.

Tuti Artic

Between happiness now, and happiness tomorrow: a vast canyon beckons
I watch you smile as you lick your Artic ice-block;
Let these cream puffs + Coca Cola decorate my love for you,
My future wife: stop the tickling of the clock.

You are an excellent kisser already, I can still feel your lips on mine
As you ride pillion on my decrepit Raleigh—
I can still feel the heat of your body, how fast you’ve grown, sweet child o’ mine!
Watch as the dreams I have of you rocket sky high.

You will meet other men tomorrow, and the next day—a different man every day
I will walk past you on the street and you won’t say hi:
Heaven to you is nothing but child’s play.

But I’m like you too, I wear things out at the speed of light
Me and Tuti + Greet + Amoi… I break hearts left, right and centre,
Love is dangerous, and gone before you know it.

– Chairil Anwar, in Djakarta Dalam Puisi Indonesia (Ajip Rosidi, ed.), Dewan Kesenian Djakarta, 1972, p. 42.