Beni Setia - 11 Januari 2009
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| from: Time flows Photoshop Manipulation by Sophia-M |
In Jakarta - said *1) Lik War - the clock is everywhere. On the fence, on the courtyard door, on the wall on the left or right side of the entrance near the bell, on the wall and chairs and tables in the living room, in the living room that doubles the living room, on TV screens and computer monitors, at the dining table and especially on drinking plates and cups, at the door, on the wall, on the bed and on the bedroom pillows, in the kitchen, in the tub and in the bathroom dipper. On the streets, in cars, on motorbikes, in traffic lights, and in the mouth, in the tongue and in the throat when people chat and shout.
Clocks are everywhere. Seconds in hearing, glowing in the memory: forcing everyone to move faster and faster so that when gasping and giving up. Say, "do everything you want, I will only be a sign when angels record everything in the daily report sheet to Allah SWT ..." And that's why — said Lik War — Jakarta has turned into a racing arena, where everyone races to get to the finish line without first enter the pit-stop pause, enter the office and start working with a clock ticking in the desk drawer, on the stomach that is only filled with coffee, on a sheet of paper, on the monitor screen, on the cellphone which seems to say that there is another runway as the next race or forced to be ignored, then pause with the clock ticking everywhere, back in the middle of the sea working hours and spurred a beat of thousands of hours of work everywhere, and so apart from the confines of working hours all immediately entered the street race to once again raced home (fast) to the house with millions of hours ticking and glowing along the road, until finally arriving home and ambushed by a clock l bro. Clock everywhere. Everyone is surrounded by hundreds of hours themselves so that they are confined alone, cannot call anyone, ask anyone for help and get help. Stumbling around the clock popping up and coming from anywhere and alighting on everything — the one that was simultaneously glowing and ticking suggested that all keep on racing.
Jakarta - said Lik War - is a big clock with billions of small hours that ticks and glows simultaneously, so that people will not be able to escape the restraints of hours, recommended hours - racing to be more free from being scheduled, when time is forced to become a standard of motion and human work. "But can we be free from hours?" Said Anderwedi, smiling and blushing. Lik War shook his head. Can humans be free of time, from the size made by humans to mark the unseen and invisible, which quietly goes forward, aggressively devouring everything while giving away the losers to run out of time, putting aside the losers from one runway, and while continuing to devour which exists and places everything on the runway that exists and is always there, side by side, contact-touch, convoluted and tangled in a fabric of fate that when traced the thread turns out to be ensnaring one another. Humans are always at the point of interdependence, for help or slashing-cutting instincts - I thought. And after that, I thought. I looked at Lik War: Wearing a black T-shirt with a fine metallic screen printing or something — splattered paint — and writing excited, what ever will be will, a line of words that I can't understand and it also seems to be understood by Lik War, who just said the shirt given the boss's child because when used was laughed at by the boss who said, "What grammar is that?"; with tight black jeans, the word "war war" is just a shot product, so the price is only enough to take a taxi to Ancol coast. Lik War also said, he rode Brantas Bus, the ticket was comparable to the price of the pants, although he couldn't do anything except sit and move your toes.
Yes! But Lik War always says: Jakarta is a big clock with billions of hours, which forces everyone to be Valentino Rossi, Casey Stoner and what else is always racing on the road, who prefer bicycles not because they don't have the money to buy a car— " the items, "said Lik War," can be purchased on credit "—but because the streets in Jakarta are not the right place to race with cars. "There are too many vehicles, so there are special roads that can only be passed by cars if the contents are at least three people, so many people offer to be hired so that the car is free to race for time in 3 in 1 minutes - unfortunately the *2) Satpol PP was even chased and pursued because he considered making rich people free and free to race on the path that no one could enter if they were alone, "said Lik War," and the crowded vehicle made traffic jams everywhere, even to the road the toll road is supposed to be spacious and free of flow for those who want to subdue the hours, so they become defeated by the time the road crawls in congestion and the goal of spending fuel is useless. "We gulped. Imagined Jakarta's smooth streets — unlike the village macadam line, which penetrates fields and fields, and empties into inter-village roads that are bumpy and potholed, and which after 5 km have just arrived on a slightly smoother district road — the road is full of cars who lined up and in between the motorbikes swerved like in the attraction of semi-acrobatic trail competition on TV, and occasionally stagnated and roared gas before the lights on the intersection lit up green, before all jumped like starting a race that would determine who came first compared to the careless pole position.
"It makes me want to go to Jakarta," said Anderwedi - representing our thoughts, all young people who were at the time hanging out at the *3) Kamling substation post at the end of the village, smoked and gulped down wine in the midst of windiness from the swamped rice fields and only a few could planted with crops and watermelons. Lik War smiled. He asked us to contact Saman Bakmi - he went around selling noodles with wheelbarrows, which were rented from bosses who also provided noodles, spices and others, and boarding houses and training - to come with him and learn to go around the alleys in Jakarta villages along night. But competing with wheelbarrows while striking metal sutures on a concave pan in races in village alleys, which may only be decorated with a clock that is already slack: it really doesn't interest our race. We shook our heads. Lik War also made another proposal, we joined Marto Pedrosa — he himself added the name because he was originally named Joko Martono and we always called him No Tit, who always styled on motorbikes who would go back to the village, and who in Jakarta being a motorcycle taxi driver. "OK!" Said Marto Pedrosa, "but you have to go for a walk in Jakarta in a week, I have to look for boarding houses because I only have one room with Neti and those two children, and at the same time I have a million as a guarantee. boss motore. Maybe you have to learn to be a motorcycle taxi first. Or umbrella motorbike taxi? "We looked away — what could be driven by becoming an (motorcycle) motorcycle taxi driver? Lik War laughed. He suggested becoming a kernet, and after six months he became an ojek driver - promising to bring us together with his *4) Batak friends. "Or join Arpan," he said, "macak and beggar acting, filling the sidewalk for change?" We looked away. That means not racing in Jakarta but being a distance stone where dogs straddle and urinate.
And the billions of hours summarized in a giant clock called Jakarta continued to glow in the dark of the night, with heavy winds from the paddy fields being turned and only a small part near the irrigation canal which had been planted with crops and watermelons, sucked sharp cold and tanned in a thorough slice on the whole body: glowing in the starry night sky, becoming a magical moon at the beginning of Shawwal (name of the month in muslim calendar), and therefore guiding us to get up and risk anything. Going to Jakarta, and becoming everything - not only acting randomly beggars but actually becoming beggars and scavengers, just like * 5) Pakde Grana, who for 15 years have never returned to their villages even though every Eid always has two or three hundred thousand for Mbah Rame, his mother; or really racing on the streets by being snatched and chased by the police so that Mburon went everywhere and then shot dead with eight dozen wound holes like Isa who was a kingpin with three other villagers who were still safe, and therefore (said lik War, Marto Pedrosa and Saman Bakmi) in Jakarta no one dared to be insolent to people from the village here, and many people in the district claimed to be native to the village here. While complaining it is not as easy as the women, who easily become helpers such as Warti, Lania, Santik and Kuni, or residents of complexes such as Tri, Sri, Kimi, Nonik, and Tyas, or who are forced to wander on the streets like Nian, Timpah, and Genduk ( protected from others in the desperate terror of the deceased Isa, Kasim, Koral and those who are still at large - so that urbanists in the districts of Jakarta make slametan in Jakarta and in the village here).
And Jakarta is a giant clock that curves and protects billions of small hours simultaneously - never simultaneously because there is always a difference slower and faster in microns - second or second - beating and glowing: all those hours are like calling us to leaving the absence of hope in the drought which always hit the village, to immediately race as anything. Race against time well and not be good, be an office or just a messenger, or fugitive because it's too creative to put the clock on a runway that is tilted staggering to survive with a bite of rice. "So what are you going to leave or not?" - shouted the dry wind that slipped coldly by spraying the hides after a stretch of rice fields that had to be turned into the dry season. Together, arrive at Senen or Kota - then scatter everywhere and become anything, then meet once a year in the village, so that you can go to Jakarta together again, and scatter again in Senen or Kota, as anything anywhere . Yes! Yes! YES! YES - is there another option, besides being a more transmigrant because of having to lay off even though the Head of the Village always claims to be in the speech of the village's halal bi halal event that is full of lies.
"Jakarta, here I am coming!" Shouted Anderwedi — drunk. ***
Note:
1) Lik : short form of Pakcilik (javanese language) : uncle younger than parents
2) Satpol PP : Local Government Security Police
3) Kamling : short form of Keamanan Keliling (self guarding security from villager)
4) Batak : Name of the people from Medan, South Sumatra and their culture
5) Pakde: short form of bapak gede (javanese language) : uncle older than parents
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