The Externalities

 

Five well-respected experts are mingling in a glamorous fund raising party. An engineer, a city planner, a psychologist, a medical doctor, and an economist.

A father is collecting scraps, pulling a cart, where his daughter is asleep.

“If you strip it down, he’s basically the prime mover in a very inefficient system—high rolling resistance, bad load balance, no mechanical advantage. The energy cost per meter is huge, and the cart adds instability without contributing anything functionally. From a systems perspective, it’s a design that guarantees fatigue and failure.”

His wife, her mother, left them long ago. They've got no shelter to go home to.

“What you’re seeing isn’t an exception, it’s a predictable output of the urban system. When housing supply, zoning, and safety nets don’t intersect, households fall out of the formal grid entirely. Unsheltered families are not a moral anomaly; they’re a planning externality.”

He just doesn't care anymore about anything else.

“That level of detachment suggests affective shutdown rather than emotional processing. After prolonged exposure to uncontrollable stressors, motivation collapses into narrow, instrumental routines. Caring stops being adaptive once the cognitive system concludes outcomes are invariant.” 

His daughter is having a lethal sickness. She has months to live.

“A lethal pediatric diagnosis with prognosis of months usually means the disease has crossed the threshold where curative treatment is no longer viable. At that point, medicine shifts from intervention to trajectory management and symptom control. The timeline is probabilistic, but the clinical direction is already fixed.”

He's working just to get enough money to bury his daughter later.

“He’s allocating labor toward a known, unavoidable future expense rather than consumption or investment. That’s not choice in the classical sense; it’s constraint-dominated behavior under extreme poverty. The labor produces zero long-term economic return, only cost coverage.”

The Altar of Wisdom

 
The lines on his serene face silently tell, there were many things that the old man had endured in life. His soft smile tells that he fought well. His sharp eyes tell that the fire is burning bright still inside him.

He was holding the little hand of his grandson, in front of stacks of books, the source of knowledge, solemnly, like in front of the altar of wisdom.

There he prayed. He prayed through the breathes that he took into his lungs, flowed to his blood with every beat of his heart, into the veins of his hand.

"May my grandson have all the needed knowledge and skill and courage to be great at telling lies, to be an expert in fooling and manipulating and exploiting people, and to profiteer out of them."

Ode to River

Hidden beneath the rocks and behind the thickness of the leaves and roots, the Water Spring asked, "Who am I?"

The Earth replied, "you are the source of life, you are the manifestation of life, you are the life itself. You are the fortuitous miracle of nature."

After it was battered by the hot and dry wind of the unforgiving day, the Creek rested in its solitude of the night, until the Moon said, "you are destined to be the unstoppable sculptor, you are the persistent and perseverant water within, you are the invincible."

Its rays danced on the turbulent surface of the Stream, gleaming and glittering, the Sun said, "you are the inevitable consequence of the contours of the soil, of the mountains, the plains, the valleys, and the hills. You are the inescapable realization of the ultimate certainty of the world."

Sweeping across fast distance and extensive land, over the forests, grasslands, dessert, villages, and cities; as it started to flood majestically, the River declared,

"I am all that.

I am the accidental creation.
I am the inevitable consequence.
I am the undeniable force of reality.

I am the water and everything that flows within.
I am the neverending rediscovery of self and I have never been the same on every heartbeat of my flush."

Embracing the River into the blackness of its depth, the Ocean said,

"You are all that.

But you have always been the same.
We have always been the same.
We are one.

Welcome home."

A Myth

Far behind the jungle, on the height of the mountain, in the depth of a cave, a young man kneeled down before an old man and desperately denounced the reality of the world and how sad and angry and disappointed he was about it.

The old man replied, "good. I'd question your sanity or your intention if you're not angry. There must be something wrong with one of them if you're not brokenhearted. Now what can I do for you?"

"Master, please heal me."

"Cannot. All living things; from bacteria to elephants, from fungi to pine trees, their adverse physical reality need to be changing for them to heal physically or mentally."

"Master, please change the world."

"Cannot. You worldly creatures got to deal with it. With dignity. Fight what you can fight. Change what you can change. Leave if it's beyond repair."

"Master, please teach me how to be like you. To be enlightened, free from worldly attachment and influence, free from anger and pain and disappointment and all the negativity."

"Cannot. You're only human."

"What are you? Who are you?"

"A myth. Lies."

Memories

A mother and a daughter worked tirelessly, day and night, against all weather, against their pain.

They stacked stone block one after another, one by one, expanding and towering, for thousands of years.

Every now and then it collapsed, crumbling down, and left nothing but ruins. Then they would start again.

They stacked stone block one after another, one by one, expanding and towering, on top of the ruins, on top of their sweat, and tears, and blood, for millions of years.

"Mother, what are we making?" asked the daughter.

"Memories, dear. We are making memories."

The Stone Fortress

Far far away in the wild ocean, an old pirate and his wrecked ship was stranded on an island where he built his fortress.

Many ships came by and offered to board and set on a journey again. He never wanted it. No, not at all. As his fortress, his heart was formidably impenetrable.

Until one sunny afternoon just before the death of the moon for the eighth time that year, a ship came.
It was different, it was not a ship in its maiden voyage, it was not without scratch and damage. It was different, he instantly knew that there would be an endless glorious journey. It was different, he unknowingly anchored his heart to the ship.

But he was distracted by his fortress.

Another twelve cycles of dead moon the ship waited.

But his map of mind was in disarray.

Only after it was setting far on the horizon of the ocean that he fully realized, that it was not a possibility until it was that ship.

But the ship had sailed away and gone.

The pirate and his shipwreck turned into stone themselves, unified with the fortress.

The Unquestioning Devotion

In the depth of a forest, an old lady carried out a ritual. She brought an empty pot, a sack of soil, a sack of ash, and a seed in a box made of gold. Very carefully she poured three cups of soil into the pot. Followed by four spoonful of ashes, spread evenly on the surface of the soil. With her index finger she poked a small hole on the soil, she put in a little seed into the hole, and covered it again with a pinch of ash. She closed her eyes, her thin lips smiled full of hope and affection, she recited a passage of chant while giving the soil four splashes of water.

For the past sixty years, she has been repeating the exact same rite on every full moon. It was exactly like how her parents taught her, it was exactly how her grandparents inherited it, as exactly how her ancestors did it. Her pure heart guided her to have an unquestioning devotion and to be faithful, that the glassbead seed that she planted will eventually germinate, grow, and produce fruits of eternal life.

Not far, a group of people gathered and watched. And they debated fiercely.

"It should be ash-soil-seed."

"It should be soil-seed-ash."

"It should be five splashes."

"It should be volcanic ash."

"She chanted too quietly."

"No she chanted the wrong passage!"

The Lighthouse

Every single evening of every single day, the old man would sit on the same chair by the window for hours.

Every single evening of every single day, after lighting up the oil lamp inside the Fresnel lens, he would accompany the sun to set down, then sit and put his attention to the same spot on the open sea.

Every single evening of every single day, at exactly 10 PM there would be a boat far on the southwest direction, sending out an exact same pattern of blips to the lighthouse. The blips would come and go as the night closed down to the dawn.

Until six months ago, for about a year long, the blips were the beacon for the lighthouse.

Since six months ago, to this day it blipped no more.

The Meaning Of Life

Long time ago when humanity and civilizations were young, there lived a young wise man. His face was serene, with his beard and peaceful eyes. He appealed solemn attention with his soft intonation and proper demeanor. He attracted respect with his white silky robe and prayer beads on his hand.

He was on his maiden journey across savannas, forests, mountains, and deserts; from temple to temple, from monasteries to monasteries; he read scrolls and scriptures, he conversed with gurus and masters and nobles. He was on the sacred pilgrimage of discovering the meaning of life.

On one fine day, he arrived at a market of a small seaside town. Aside from the children who were playing in the muds and dogs that were digging the rubbish, it was not that busy, as the seamen were having their rest and the traders were just finished weighing the catch of the day.

He didn't spend his time for there were no spiritual gurus in that humble town. After a little negotiation, our wise man boarded a small fishing boat to cross the strait, accompanied by an old boat worker and a young boy.

The sea was calm, the wind was light, and the boredom prompted the wise man to strike up a conversation with the boy. They talked about the water, the boat, the boy's daily activities, then about his own, about his childhood, his friends, his school, his family, his ancestors.

At this point, the boy had stopped talking and was simply listening to the wise man. And he continued, about his home town, his journey, and his quest for the meaning of life.

Had been silent earlier, the old boat worker commented briefly, "it is a foolishness and an utter arrogance to try to contain the meaning of life within the limited boundaries of language."

The boy stared blankly at the sea as the wise man went on, talked about his teachers, the scrolls and scriptures that he had read, and he talked about his robe, his face, his beard, and his charm.

The boy jumped up to his feet, grabbed the wise man by his robe, and pushed him down into the sea. He took a barrel full of fish innards and poured it onto him.

"That, my friend, is the meaning of life."

But Of Course They Didn't Understand

Afternoon sunrays were beaming down in between the leaves, gleaming on the tree canopies up above. If only you didn't have to rush your way, it would be a very good place to take a rest, slow down a bit, catch up some breath, and to take a good look of this beauty. But you were half running with a steady pace across the forest trail.

That huge tall tree on top of the hill. That was your destination. Beyond that point, you will meet your folks, you will find a safe place to drink and eat, you will even find a safe place to give birth to the offspring in your womb. It has been almost twenty times of full moons since you were carrying it inside you.

You were pregnant. And you were a young elephant.

The imagination of reaching that tree on the hill made you rush your steps. You wanted to be there as soon as possible, you wanted to be safe. But desire entices carelessness. There were some little noises at a distance - it must be the baboons having a good time. There were some foreign scents - it must be blown away from afar. There were some movements on the bush to the right - and suddenly, in a rapid succession, you heard a click, a loud bang, you crashed to the ground, and there were an extreme pain on your lower stomach.

You wanted to stand up but it was too painful. The bullet hit something inside you and you can feel that it was wet and warm.

Two hunters came forward from behind the bushes and one of them said, "damn! Why is it an elephant. I was aiming for the antelope."

You moved your head, you could see the big tree on top of the hill was even closer now. You tried to tell the hunters, "I will be ok. Just help me with my bleeding and I can carry on!"

The other hunter, tense and cautious, said to his companion, "we can't carry this elephant. We can't sell it. And it has no tusk. Poor thing is in pain for nothing."

The first hunter nodded in approval and pulled out an elephant gun from his back.

You tried to tell them that you will be fine, that one hunting bullet can't put down an elephant, that your kind can take tens of it and still be alive. You cried for them to stop.

But of course they didn't understand.

Against The Storm

A little peasant was holding a wooden stick on his right hand. The stick was about the length of his arm, broken, of wretched wood, and unrefined. It was taken roughly from an animal pen or something else.

He had been standing there cautiously for a while, in the middle of the browning and dried paddy fields. Far in front of him was hills, behind which, tempestuous turbid black cloud was growing slowly, engulfing the hills in slow motion.

He clenched his grip on the stick and swung it in small movements. Cold and humid barrage of winds from up the hill blew more severely by each second, creating chaotic wailing sounds as it broke through the trees, hit the ground, and swept over the paddy fields. The hills disappeared completely in the growling blackness and thunders.

A storm was a certainty.

He walked forward pugnaciously to meet it halfway. To fight it.

Against the roaring wind I screamed, "who are you?"

The little peasant looked back and replied,

"I am you.

I am her.

I am everyone of us.

The Mankind."

The Confession

An account of memories from not so distant past from his point of view.

Traces of their fragmented soul were scattered across this city. Some places spoke of painful memories, some other of loss and despair, of loneliness and its manifestations.

When he met her the first time he was a broken man beyond repair. Nothing in this world would penetrate the stone he had become. There were almost no love nor warmth to be found inside his rotten soul.

Another time, it was her. She was crumbling down before his eyes. He witnessed the fruition of failure rooted from her youth foolishness. She was broken, injured, crushed to the ground.

Two broken selves walked their own paths on earth, wandering with hollowed soul. Mistakes after mistakes burried them deeper and dried their heart each day, until their paths met very smoothly.

She shared her painful stories to him, she revealed her bruises and scars. He saw his own wounds in her, her pain resonated his own, and the vibration carved out a small crack on the petrified soul of his, through which he revealed the resembling bruises and scars to her.

They faced their past and painful memories through each other.

International Guide For Driving Or Riding In Jakarta

One cannot be considered has truly experienced Jakarta if he or she has not tried to drive a car there, on its highways, in its traffic, in rush hour, behind the steering wheel. But that is only second to the ultimate challenge, the surreal life and death experience, the act of courage and totality, one way to become one with the city itself, feeling and living its heartbeat; riding a motor bike. If any of you really want to be elevated to that level of understanding of Jakarta, this International Guide is created to facilitate that purpose.


Disclaimer: Although this International Guide is very rich in detailed facts, one must understand that most of them, if not all, are potentially against the law, and that this International Guide is basically a style of writing that uses humor, irony, exaggeration, and ridicule to expose and criticize something. Both the writer and the writing of this International Guide cannot be held responsible in case anything happened, either good or bad, that resulted from reading or practicing the content of this International Guide.

The World As I See It

Some would be about cities and urban life,
some other capture humanity,
and the rest would merely show my indecent appetite towards

space, pattern, & geometry.

Pengemis Dan Penikmat Patung

18 Agustus 2006

Kau berjalan menghampiri orang itu. Seorang laki-laki yang terlalu tua untuk disebut muda, mungkin umurnya sudah lewat dari lima puluh tahun, bahkan mungkin kau menebaknya enam puluh.

***

Ia sedang berdiri sendirian hampir di tengah lapangan yang kini sedang kau lintasi, membuat potongan berbentuk sedikit diagonal, tepat menuju orang itu. Pandanganmu pun tertuju padanya, walaupun tidak sungguh-sungguh tepat padanya, bukan sebuah pandangan yang tajam. Laki-laki itu mengenakan kemeja batik berlengan panjang dan celana panjang bahan, berdiri tegak sambil berpangku tangan. Badan dan mukanya menghadap ke arah tengah lapangan, di mana berdiri seonggok patung di sana

Cerita di Atas Kursi

05 Januari 2005

Ia, orang tua itu selalu duduk di sana. Di depan pos jaga petugas keamanan, di atas sebuah kursi di samping sebuah pohon yang juga selalu berada di sana. Sejak pagi hingga sore ketika hari mulai gelap ia akan selalu berada di sana, makan dan minum ia lakukan di sana, juga kadang tertidur di kursinya yang juga telah tua. Dulu sewaktu ia masih muda dan kuat ia memang juga anggota petugas keamanan di kotanya, sehari-hari ia habiskan di dalam pos jaga yang hingga kini - lama setelah ia pensiun - masih juga ia tunggui. Tidak ada yang terganggu karena kehadirannya, tidak juga dengan petugas-petugas keamanan yang baru - yang telah berganti generasi beberapa kali. Seperti pohon yang tumbuh di samping pos jaga itu, tidak ada yang aneh dengan kehadirannya di sana, selayaknya ia memang sudah seharusnya berada di sana.

Aku Bertemu Tuhan!

7 Agustus 2006

Sebenarnya  aku lebih suka bicara langsung denganmu, muka berhadapan dengan muka,  supaya kau dengar apa yang kukatakan langsung dari mulutku. Tapi apa mau  dikata, aku ada di sini dan kau ada entah di mana, sementara apa yang  mau kukatakan jelas sudah harus kukatakan sekarang juga. Maka sekarang  kau sedang baca tulisanku. Anggaplah ini kata-kataku, walaupun jelas  beda dan orang tolol manapun mesti bisa membedakan antara tulisan dan  perkataan. Tapi anggaplah ini kata-kataku, karena aku tak bisa  mengatakannya langsung padamu, sementara apa yang mau kukatakan sudah  sangat mendesak sifatnya.

Begini. Aku bertemu Tuhan!

Juara Penguasaan Spasial Jakarta

Seorang penari balet yang handal, pembalap ulung, pemain sepak bola yang lihai, atau atlet bela diri yang sangat tangkas memiliki kecerdasan penguasaan spasial (keruangan) pada medannya masing-masing. Demikian juga dengan para pelaku berbagai macam profesi dan keterampilan lainnya yang memanfaatkan gerak tubuh atau pengendalian suatu alat di dalam suatu ruang berbatas.

Tetapi kali ini mari kita mengapresiasi perihal penguasaan ruang dari perspektif yang lain. Kali ini kita akan meniliknya dari sudut pandang Kota Jakarta.