for the ones who are ready for holding me and my space
The kitchen sink leaked without breaking. It was the pipe: condensed, hardened oil and fat. Per landlord’s request, two building maintenance workers knocked on the door and started cleaning. Necessary noise, very much needed labor. I sat on the working desk, trying not to be on their way. For around a week, D and I had been doing dishes with a medium size basin, going back and forth between the kitchen and bathroom. We used the kitchen regularly. We wanted it to function again.
And it did. It does. Two workers have done it.
One morning, I woke up for the second time and cried. The first one felt surreal: half awake, I opened and locked the door for a friend who slept over and needed to go at five am to cheer up her other friends at a sports event. I didn’t remember what happened in my second sleep after sending my friend away. My breathing was heavy. My front body was aching. As I cried in the wail, I rushed to the kitchen, washing dishes. D got up from bed, half asleep concerned: “Kamu kenapa?” I couldn’t stop the tears. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I could only make a list: my hormonal imbalance? my long mild depression? failure of my longing? What no no no no no, which kind of sadness is this? Help me. “D, aku harus gerak supaya aku nggak nangis lagi.”
I clenched my teeth for the concept “chosen family” as I increasingly distrust the imposition of normative intimacies. This idea, attached to its moral imperative, makes less room for ambivalence. It gives no space for hesitance, no time for wait-a-minute-how-are-we-really-do-we-even-know-each-other. The idea makes many drowned and drunk, addicted to the barest form of attention and social cues. Many consume it like fifteen seconds of instagram story or a minute of tiktok videos. Do they choose the members of the “chosen family” like they choose what instagram contents they want to see? Do they choose which persons they want to get close to like they feed the algorithmic machine with their own search for ideal relationships? O my friend, we would not be friends.
My vision of living together, to build a household, starts with those nights when D slept over at my closet-like room in Kuningan a decade ago. It was a decent but not so comfortable living space, but we shared: bed, mie Aceh, roti canai, kopi, books, silence. She witnessed me in feverish pain. I listened to her stories and struggles. She saw me falling in love. I embraced her creations. She’s a daily light brave enough to meet my nightly shadow. We were there. Here we are.
I used to believe in the act of choosing persons to build intimate networks. This faith was another mirage, the illusion of free choice. I was clinging to a damning liberal hope of being chosen back and given grace. But this will and wish–for my choice to become an intimate possibility–is cruelty in itself. I cannot choose; I refuse to be chosen. I come to be, practice, fail, fall, try again, fail in repeat through exhaustion, tiredness, disappointment, and keep pushing against the oppressive regime of ordinariness. To do things one needs to do, one must re-arrange priorities, labors, and stillness in the zone of the pessimists.
On a winter in suburban Illinois, B and P and I spent a casual evening together. I built a chibi gundam figure. P was busy with their nails. B read political news.
“Jangan pulang, P. Tidur sini aja.”
“Mulai.”
“Hehehehehe….”
What things are holding this house? Glimpses of future tense, the thought of further time and space, of liberty and liberation. Meanings out of care and affection are thoughts-in-practice and practices-in-thought. Feel. Do not not think. I do, I do, I do [insert verbs of action]. I am crumbling. So shall I come again.
Nik Setiadarma 