There was construction work in the street near where I live since I moved to my current flat in July, and as I walked through it the other day, they finished with it. As I walked through the site, small tablets on the stone below my feet caught my attention. Memorial tablets: some people got caught and then died in a concentration camp.
At the end of last month, I rode my first ride. My friend F. made me took the small steps into the giant tower with hanging seats from its hands. That tower shined so brightly, neon-colored, and I could see those hanging seats tilted because the hands started to rotate. The seats would turn as the hands soared to the sky. At that moment, some of the people riding it would scream, a mixture of excitement and fear.
I always miss the water that pulls me to its depth. Whenever I enter the swimming pool, it is the unknown depth and the territories it claims that calls me to explore its mysteries. Something is hidden there, I always thought. Even when the same pool I visited several times already, the charms are still there. I am not sure what is changing, and I am never able to perceive the changes it has, but it is there: the ever-changing flows of the water.
A couple of years ago, I, my brother B., and my girlfriend R. were working on a dance-drama together. We adapted a play by Pramoedya Ananta Toer into a three acts dance-drama. The title was Mangir. One scene in the second act was for me memorable.
The street was full of cars and motorcycles. They drove past me as I walked to one bookstore about 80 meters away from my house. I noticed many things have changed for the last 4 years. My “hometown” became a stranger I have to get acquainted with again. The town was as lively as how I know it, and there were many food stalls on the side of the road. It was Saturday night, people go out on that night. I am always fascinated when observing how many people are there. How many different life, different personalities. Also: How many different problems.