The tip of my fingers smells funny. The old papers give marks. The past sticks on the surface of my skin. Someone I never know had touched those pages, binding them, carrying them, until they arrived in the hands of librarians and stayed on the shelves for decades. They put stamp, catalog number, enforcing the logic of data management. Many times they forget. The present, future readers called those bindings, and read them in a half-bright room, summoning writers and words from the past. I’m one of them and yet I sigh. My back hurts. “Thank you for today,” as I closed the bindings and returned them. Hand sanitizer. I rubbed my hands. It’s time to go home.
Taking a train from Gondangdia station to Duren Kalibata at four pm makes my head dizzy. I’m with thousands of people commuting, and its brutal condition dampened my will. My ride is short but it’s long enough to worsen my muscles ache. Almost-everyday fatigue. “Excuse me.” Someone pulled my hand fiercely so I’m not drowned in the crowd. Inhale inhale. Exhale exhale.
I do not write “field notes” for this long project. I only have a short list, long scribbles, and hours and hours of sitting down and trying to understand. “What’s the method of history?” “You read and listen, then you think hard.” I wish I could think harder. Right now, I’m a bit in a slump. I’ve been thinking about my own question for the past three years, and I still cannot find ways to understand what lies in front of me. I can think of dozens of research topics, but my job is no longer to plan. It’s to do one.
One day I feel this is it. Another day, no, that’s not it. I cut and paste a whole paragraph, storing its words in a separate doc file named “Junk.” I don’t delete them. Maybe they will come back later. Mostly, not at all. Writing is thinking. But thinking is agonizing. Half-lie; it is also a pleasure. I’m currently embracing the pain and joy of ensuring and doubting. Confidence and meekness enmeshed. I have eternal question marks and the will to answer.
I once declared about a history I want to write. A fragrant history. Top notes: resilience, struggle. Heart notes: quotidian, minutiae attempts. Base notes: poignancy. I always feel the beauty of words easily pass me by. I wonder if lyricism favors my bitterness. But this declaration falters easily. I still want matter-of-fact. I want to acquire the basics, the standard. Clarity and precision. I want to step back before leaping.
Nik Setiadarma 