Lawang Sewu

You meet me at the airport and take me to my hotel, tell me later we will go in search of wingko babat, lumpia and my favorite soto ayam in a roadside warung. I like your town. It’s big and breezy, close to the sea, pleasant and open, it has curbs painted with zebra stripes, roundabouts and a big hill with views to the port. It could win a tidy town prize, reminds me of Newcastle with its sweep of beach, factory and ships waiting patiently to dock.

You have a wife I haven’t met, somewhere in this salty town. I’m sure she’s lovely and knows about me, the writer friend who writes to you, who flies in on a whim to teach your students creative writing in a small, carpeted, airless room with tiered box seating. I can’t tell if I’m in a theatre or a padded cell. Everyone has their shoes off, left outside the door. I leap about barefoot on the carpet, feeling liberated, free, acting slightly mad, a bit gila in the nicest way (I hope). Later students tell me I am lucu (funny) and one asks me to join their group - Hysteria. I feel right at home.

KOLEKTIF HYSTERIA, adalah sayap organisasi hysteria yang bersifat komunitas. KOLEKTIF HYSTERIA concern pada penciptaan dan kreativitas tiap orang yang terlibat di dalamnya. keanggotaan bersifat cair dan ikatan hanya pada saat menjalankan art project bersama. KOLEKTIF HYSTERIA diciptakan untuk menampung kreativitas dan keliaran teman-teman dalam hal berkarya.

Your daughter turns up, she is lovely, in her 20’s, she wears the jilbab, it only makes women look more beautiful I think. I am happy to meet her. You introduce me as your best friend. I am flattered and yes, it’s true, you feel like my best friend from kindergarten. That could be because we don’t speak each other’s languages so well, and like to make funny noises as we drive along in your little black car. ‘Waaaakk, waak, woaaaakkkaaa,’ you call out.’ Wieeeeik, wieeikka, wwaaaaoooooohhhh,’ I reply.

In your car you play a tape of songs I wrote a long time ago. They have titles like Spilt Guilt, Limping For Sympathy, The Song Of A Single Cynic. You tell me you play them all the time. I’m not so comfortable listening to myself. I ask if you have any traditional music of Semarang. I scrabble around in your cassette bag. All I can find is Neil Young.

You have to go to your kantor. It’s the newspaper office where you work, you are the cultural editor for Suara Merdeka newspaper the voice of Central Java. You are always going to the kantor. Whenever I sms from Oz and ask, ‘What are you doing?’ you reply “saya akan ke kantor’. And when you are not going to the kantor you are driving off to Jogja or flying to Jakarta to report on cultural events. You even reported on visiting me in Melbourne. The headline you wrote had my name in it, splashed all across Java.

On that visit we had arranged to meet under the clocks at Flinders St. When you didn’t turn up I called your phone, worried you were lost. “But I am under a clock” you said, “and I am in Flinders St”. I didn’t know there was another clock further down. Ya benar, you were correct, you taught me something new about my city that night.

You were so proud to have travelled all the way from Brunswick by yourself on a tram. I equate it to taking the local bus from Jakarta airport to Gambir Station. I wouldn’t do it without you. I remember the time we did. We were on the way back from a festival where we both read our work. I was falling in love with Indonesians at every turn, men, women, children. I wrote a poem called Indonesian Handbag, the title a take on, fag hag, gay handbag – a straight woman who loves gay men, men she falls in love with but can never have. It even got published in the Jakarta Post. I was a wee bit embarrassed and now I realize why. It was a song not a poem. Written for the voice not the page.

Your other best friend Sitok, yes that famous poet, Sitok Srengenge, calls what I write ‘something like poetry’. I like this expression, it offers a way out, leaves the door open - an apt way to describe a lot of what I do: something-like-poetry,  something-like-prose, but not something-like-song. Song is where I began, I know I can claim it as mine. When Sitok and I collaborated together, the only way I could respond to his poems was to sing them. Now I marvel at the stages of translation his poems traversed - from image/feeling, to thought, to written word, to a poem in Indonesian, to a poem in English, to a song - sung back into the air it first came from.

There’s something very comforting about sitting in a warung on a worn wooden bench under a blue flapping tarp, listening to the gas flame sizzling away. Reminds me of camping when I was little, but here we sit on the sidewalk, jutting out into the street, motorbikes and cars whizzing by, and yet I feel safe and cosy as I order my usual - air panas. The first meal we shared this way was in Jogja on famous Malioboro St, lesehan style in another of those makeshift restaurants that pop up after dark - we feasted on pece lele, sitting on grass mats at a low table. After dinner you took me for my first becak ride. We rode through the back streets of Jogjakarta soundlessly, gliding on air, you couldn’t even hear the rasp of the old becak drivers breath. I wanted to keep gliding all night.

This night you are taking me somewhere special but first you have to ask if I am scared of ghosts. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I reply as we drive in the gate of a grand old colonial building that has seen better days. You get out of your little black car and go looking for the caretaker. The man you bring back is holding a very long torch. We go up to the front door, he knocks - no answer, then opens the door and we venture into the dark. ‘Where are we? I whisper. You take my hand, squeeze it tight and blow the words into my ear. “Lawang Sewu - The House of A Thousand Doors”.

Roll up, roll up, to the house of a thousand doors. Step right up, step right up, to the house of a thousand doors. Walk this way, slide along, glide along, but don't knock on any old door, and don't go down the left corridor, I repeat, don't go down the left corridor, keep to the kanan, then tirus, tirus tirus tirus, don't go to the left, I repeat, don't go down the left…

Some doors you can open some doors you cannot, lie down on cool flagstones when the weather is hot, walk right up, walk right through, come after dark, come on the full moon, come when the shadows are bright and gloom is washing the colours out…

Follow your guide beneath torch-light, ascend the landing, gaze in awe, at the big stained glass window, say a prayer for those who happened to die right there, hear their screams as they plunged the blade, listen to the air rushing past, the last gasp of a ventricle sliced in half, hear their moans, skulls split and slide, blood spurts across the marble white...

The caretaker tells you and you attempt to tell me that the Dutch began building Lawang Sewu in1904 for the national railway of the Dutch East Indies and finished it in1919. When the Japanese invaded in 1942, they interred the Dutch in camps and used it as a prison carrying out interrogations, torture and executions.  In the battle of Semarang in 1945 the Dutch retook the building and many Indonesian fighters were killed. After the war and Indonesia's independence, The Indonesian Army occupied the building but later returned it to the Dutch East India Railway Company.

We follow the caretaker up another flight to the junction of two long wide corridors. I want to go left but the caretaker stops us. So right we go, opening doors and stepping into empty high ceilinged rooms with chequerboard tile floors and French doors that open out onto the wide common balcony. 

Outside the full moon climbs into the night sky and I lag behind a little. I want to do the thing I do when I find myself in empty spaces like this; I want to test the air,  I want to sing. I lift my voice and send it to the ceiling. The acoustics are perfect. I lift it again and again trilling out snatches of classical improv, sliding out bits of jazz, a few coo-ees, a scale or two. I run my voice around the cornices, across each little crack on the flaking ceiling, I glaze the walls, bump it across the tiled floors like a finger or a fine paint brush dipped in moonlight, setting it in memory, making part of me, painting it onto my body so I won’t forget.

My best singing is always done alone, just me and the air, no audience, no witness, no words to describe it. For twenty years I didn't sing at all. Is it really something I want to go back to - standing on a stage with a microphone and audience in front of me? or keep it for moments like this one.

You rush back into the room, a look of concern on your face, the caretaker not far behind.  ” Please no singing,” you tell me, “the caretaker is nervous, he thinks you will wake up the ghosts.”  

Roll up, roll up, warm up, sidle up, sing a tune as you go, a sad song, patriotic song, a love song, a warrior song, a song of shame, a song of defeat, a song that has everyone tapping their feet, fill the halls with arias, rooms with concertos, the ceilings so high, the acoustics are perfect, raise your voice, lift it up to the roof, and call up the ghosts if you need any proof and watch as they float tall through the French doors, and click, click, clop, clop across stone chequerboard floors, and if you are scared open adjoining doors to the next room the next, and open them all to the balcony so wide and grand, lean yourself out to the court yard below and imagine it all in times long ago..

The house of a thousand doors.

The caretaker explains to you and you explain to me, about the ghost he sometimes meets down the left corridor.

Walk up, roll up to the house of a thousand doors, but don't, I say don't, proceed down the left corridor, instead watch the caretaker shine his torch on the floor, walls catch a glimmer of a figure tall with blond hair so long it becomes her dress and covers, not covers, her nakedness, the Belanda who visits late every night when his shift is done and shoulders are tight, she appears to him when he goes for a shower and his wife wonders why he always takes hours..

In the house of a thousand doors.

 He doesn’t mention other ghosts but I get the feeling he knows where they are. When we ask about the cellars he says they are flooded, we cannot go down. He taps his torch on the wall, looks tired, ready for bed. As we retrace our steps, descending the stairs to the lower level, the ghostly shape of an old man passes us in the hall. You tell me he has lived here since he was a boy.

And the shuffle below of one who survived, the hunched old frame who saw it all, who knew what went on behind each closed door, saw the Dutch, saw the Japs, all the snivelling traitors, collaborators, torturers, interrogators, but the Javanese spirit would not be cowed though many died in cellars dark, and local warriors played their part, he a lowly houseboy saw it all, now a bent old man, he shuffles around, dosses down, in a room out the back on a mattress of grass, now he is the master of the house…

 The house of a thousand doors.

I’m back in Sydney when I start writing this something like-story-like-song-like-poem called The House of a Thousand Doors, only it’s coming out more like a song or a spruiker’s chant. I don’t finish it, only just get going really, before I am distracted by other things. But the germ is there, the seed is planted in that first verse - Roll up, roll up to the house of a thousand doors. It’s the cry of the spruiker from an agricultural show in 1950’s country Victoria, calling us down sideshow alley to the haunted house, drumming up an audience for Jim Sharman’s boxers, luring us in to watch the beautiful lady with the ostrich feather fans in the burlesque tent. The rhythm is set, the template established as the first words roll onto the page. Three years later I revisit it and wonder, can it be included in the anthology of short stories we are planning - yours set in Australia, mine in Indonesia? Can it slip in via the category prose poem, or is there a term better suited like: prose song, prose chant, song poem, song story, song narrative?

On the way back to the hotel you start singing our song, the one we made up in the Botanical Gardens in Sydney when I took you to see Lady Macquarie’s Chair and you asked, "where is the chair?" I am always forgetting the Javanese words. I have written them down in one of the small note books I carry with me and always seem to misplace.

We will sing again after we visit Lapindo, the mud disaster site near Sidoarjo where six villages have been buried under a volcano of liquid mud that keeps oozing from a blowout in a natural gas mining well. In the evening you will recite your poem Moon over Mud for the local arts community and I will provide a vocal accompaniment. We will perform again in Canberra for the Indonesian Ambassador and at Borobodur at the Ubud Writers Festival where dukuns will be employed to keep away the rain.

I wonder if a term such as sono-poetic-musical-miscegenation could be applied to us. We are always mixing your culture and mine, giving birth to music, words and sound. Like the time we were driving around Sydney and you began intoning a deep gutteral chant which at first made me think you were in terrible pain. EEEEErrrrrrrrnnnnnnnssss n Yooooooonnnnnnnnnnnggggggg EEEEEErrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnssssssss n Yooooooooohoooonggggg. When I asked you what it meant, you pointed to the neon sign atop a city skyscraper that displayed the name of an accounting firm, Ernst & Young. I can’t look at it now without smiling and hearing your song.

(c) Jan Cornall 2012

Seven Husbands and The Secret Prophet

Stories by an Indonesian in Australia &
                 an Australian in Indonesia.

WRITERS: Jan Cornall and Triyanto Triwikromo

BACKGROUND
Indonesian short story writer, Triyanto Triwikromo, and Australian writer/performer Jan Cornall, first met at Darwin’s Wordstorm Festival in 2005.This project is the result of a collaborative friendship evolving over a number of years while visiting one another’s countries to take part in festivals and arts projects including Utan Kayu Biennale, Ubud Writers Festival and Gang Festival (Sydney).

THE BOOK
Triyanto and Jan are in the process of completing seven short stories each, inspired by real people and places observed in each other’s countries for the collection Seven Husbands and The Secret Prophet.

PUBLICATION
Rather than publishing bilingually in one volume, which often limits the readership rather than increasing it, we are looking at publishing an Indonesian language version as well as an English version.

TRANSLATION
We are currently seeking funding for translation into English and Bahasa Indonesia.

OUTLINE - Seven Husbands and The Secret Prophet.

Triyanto Triwikromo

                                HIS SHORT STORIES

1.    THE PROPHET’S BOWL DELIRIUM
Greg lives in Sydney. He has a mental disorder. He thinks he is being followed by the Green Devil. He wants to save Australian activists who are being sucked into the vending machine – a prison created by those who dislike the activists and rebels who defend humanitarianism and the Aborigines.

2.    NATASJA KOROLENKO’S CIRCUS OF FIRE
A lesbian love affair between Virginia Grey and Natasja Korolenko, is complicated by Russian agents and ghosts haunting the figure of Christ at the house of a crazy artist in Bondi Junction.

3.    A PAIR OF SNAKES AT THE PURPLE CROSS
A pair of lovers (also lesbian), await the arrival of the messiah launched from the silver sky boat over Coogee Beach. The tale is linked to the apparition of the Virgin Mary at the beach side reserve that draws hundreds of followers.

4.     THREE ANGELS IN VENESSA’S EAR
A son is under arrest by the Australian Government on suspicion of being a terrorist.  His mother who lives in Redfern, has an enhanced ability in hearing. This is how she finds out the fate of her son in prison.

5.    THE CLOSED DOOR OF ABU BAKAR KELLY
An old man from Flores dies in his housing commission flat. His death is only discovered four days later when his neighbours notice black crows encircling the door. The old man leaves behind thirteen letters about relations during his life with Aborigines and petty criminals of Redfern.

6.    THE QUIET ROAD OF WONG KANG SENG
A teenage gigolo works the beat every night on The Wall, servicing well-to-do men to realize his dream of returning home to Niu Che Sui (Singapore’s Chinatown). His friendship with another gigolo (an Aboriginal political activist, Wiradjuri) helps Seng to discover the beauty of life in the midst of suffering as a money machine for pimps.

7.    JULIA’S TWILIGHT HOUSE

This is the story of Julia, a beautiful Sydney music producer, who separated from her partner of many years Tashi Nawang, (the Tibetan musician she produced). Julia, a victim of the fluid model of “marriage” in Australia, does not receive anything because her partner (now passed away) legally married another woman.


Jan Cornall      

                                     HER SHORT STORIES
               

1.    SEVEN HUSBANDS
 A woman in the village of Babanan in the district of Tabanan has seven husbands (not all at one time). One by one she rejects them, not for their ordinary looks but because they are bad lovers. That is until she meets husband Number Seven.

2.    CLOSE TO HEAVEN
Shy Celina was born in a Jakarta high rise and has promised her dying parents she will never go ‘down below’. Keeping her promise isn’t easy until she transforms her penthouse into a high altitude forest for rare birds. When the press want to hail her as an eco hero, she chooses to join the birds.

3.    THE GIRL WITH A SUITCASE
A girl rides her leathery dreams and goes becak gliding through the streets of Yogyakarta. Taking over the peddling she arrives at the Water Castle with gifts for the Sultans thirty-nine wives who bathe together in a blue pool, waiting to be chosen as ‘wife for the day’.

4.     READING THE SIGNS
Charlotte and Fardjar, members of The Society for Religious Pluralism, are opposite in every way. She is Buddhist, he is Muslim, she is tall, he is short, he is fat, she is skinny. So why don’t they heed the signs that appear in front of them everywhere they go - beware, danger, stop, look out?

5.     SEA MASSAGE
Wayan, a Lovina masseuse, makes a living massaging tourists in her shack by the beach.  The tourists tell her how they would love to swap places, but Wayan tells them her life is not so simple. Every morning she sends her worries out to sea until one day, the sea takes all her problems away.

6.     THE DUCHESS OF THE SOUTH SEAS
The Duchess of Pareng Endong sits naked in a smouldering garbage box near Parangtritus beach, with everything she needs - warmth, food, clothing. At night in the coconut grove when men take advantage of her she prays for them in Bahasa Berlanda. When a Dutch TV crew want to tell her story she disappears. Luckily they find a replacement.

7.    THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND DOORS
A grand old Dutch building in Semarang has a colourful history and attracts ghosts from all over Java – famous, infamous and recently deceased. Open any door for a shocking surprise. Roll up! walk up! step inside, if you dare, – come after dark, come at moonlight , but don’t go down the left corridor , I repeat, don’t go down the left!.


TRIYANTO TRIWIKROMO
Triyanto Triwikromo is widely published, award winning short story writer in Indonesia. His anthologies are: Rezim Seks (Sex Regime), 1987; Ragaula (2002). Sayap Anjing (Wings of Dog) Short Stories, Penerbit Buku Kompas, 2003; Anak-anak Mengasah Pisau (Children Sharpening the Knives) published in two languages (English and Indonesian) by Masscom Media in 2003; Malam Sepasang Lampion,(A Night of Chinese Lanterns), by Penerbit Buku Kompas,2004; Ular Di Mangkuk Nabi 2009 (Snake In The Prophets Bowl)by Gramedia Pustaka Utama. His stories have also been published in the leading Indonesian newspaper Kompas and he has been nominated for Kompas awards in 2002, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008. In 2009 he received the Pusat Bahasa of Letters Award for Ular di Mangkuk Nabi in 2015 the Tokoh Seni Pilihan Tempo award after writing Kematian Kecil Kartosoewirjo. His works, including A Conspiracy of God-killers (2015), The Serpent in The Holy Grail (2015), and Upside-Down Heaven (2015), were showcased at the 2015 Frankfurt Book Fair.Triyanto is the chief cultural editor for Suara Merdeka, East Java’s major newspaper. He also teaches creative writing at Diponegoro University, Semarang.

 JAN CORNALL
Jan Cornall has written 15 produced plays and musicals, a feature film, a published novel and several albums of songs. Her novel Take Me To Paradise (Saritaksu Editions) is set in Indonesia’s Bali, and jazz poetry CD, Singing Srengenge were launched at the Ubud Writers and Readers festival in 2006. Her collection of poems and stories, Archipelagogo, illustrated by Indonesian artist Jumaadi was published in 2013 and was penned during a decade of travel in Indonesia. Jan’s stories and articles have been published in the Jakarta Post, the Daily Telegraph, the Adelaide Advertiser, Realtime Arts magazine Urthona Magazine, Gang re:Publik and ArtsHub.com.
Jan has edited a number of books including On Nothing, Sitok Srengenge, Collected Poems (Kata Kita), Gang Re:Publik  - Australian Indonesian Creative Adventures (co-editor), Recipes For Everyday Life by Alison Nancye and The Electronic Swagman  (Halstead Press) by Raymond Hawkins.
For ten years Jan taught writing at Universities in Sydney (WSE, UTS) and has given master classes at Diponegoro University, Indonesia. She has been a guest writer at numerous festivals in the Asia Pacific region including: Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, Hong Kong Inernational Literary Festival, Irrawaddy Literary Festival (Burma), Mountain Echoes Literary Festival (Bhutan), Utan Kayu Bienale (Jakarta), She leads popular workshops and journeys for writers in Australia and the Asia Pacific.


(c) All materials cited here are the copyright of Jan Cornall and Triyanto Triwikromo

Seven Husbands and The Secret Prophet

Stories by an Indonesian in Australia &
                 an Australian in Indonesia.

WRITERS: Jan Cornall and Triyanto Triwikromo

BACKGROUND
Indonesian short story writer, Triyanto Triwikromo, and Australian writer/performer Jan Cornall, first met at Darwin’s Wordstorm Festival in 2005.This project is the result of a collaborative friendship evolving over a number of years while visiting one another’s countries to take part in festivals and arts projects including Utan Kayu Biennale, Ubud Writers Festival and Gang Festival (Sydney).

THE BOOK
Triyanto and Jan are in the process of completing seven short stories each, inspired by real people and places observed in each other’s countries for the collection Seven Husbands and The Secret Prophet.

PUBLICATION
Rather than publishing bilingually in one volume, which often limits the readership rather than increasing it, we are looking at publishing an Indonesian language version as well as an English version.

TRANSLATION
We are currently seeking funding for translation into English and Bahasa Indonesia.

OUTLINE - Seven Husbands and The Secret Prophet.

Triyanto Triwikromo

                                HIS SHORT STORIES

1.    THE PROPHET’S BOWL DELIRIUM
Greg lives in Sydney. He has a mental disorder. He thinks he is being followed by the Green Devil. He wants to save Australian activists who are being sucked into the vending machine – a prison created by those who dislike the activists and rebels who defend humanitarianism and the Aborigines.

2.    NATASJA KOROLENKO’S CIRCUS OF FIRE
A lesbian love affair between Virginia Grey and Natasja Korolenko, is complicated by Russian agents and ghosts haunting the figure of Christ at the house of a crazy artist in Bondi Junction.

3.    A PAIR OF SNAKES AT THE PURPLE CROSS
A pair of lovers (also lesbian), await the arrival of the messiah launched from the silver sky boat over Coogee Beach. The tale is linked to the apparition of the Virgin Mary at the beach side reserve that draws hundreds of followers.

4.     THREE ANGELS IN VENESSA’S EAR
A son is under arrest by the Australian Government on suspicion of being a terrorist.  His mother who lives in Redfern, has an enhanced ability in hearing. This is how she finds out the fate of her son in prison.

5.    THE CLOSED DOOR OF ABU BAKAR KELLY
An old man from Flores dies in his housing commission flat. His death is only discovered four days later when his neighbours notice black crows encircling the door. The old man leaves behind thirteen letters about relations during his life with Aborigines and petty criminals of Redfern.

6.    THE QUIET ROAD OF WONG KANG SENG
A teenage gigolo works the beat every night on The Wall, servicing well-to-do men to realize his dream of returning home to Niu Che Sui (Singapore’s Chinatown). His friendship with another gigolo (an Aboriginal political activist, Wiradjuri) helps Seng to discover the beauty of life in the midst of suffering as a money machine for pimps.

7.    JULIA’S TWILIGHT HOUSE

This is the story of Julia, a beautiful Sydney music producer, who separated from her partner of many years Tashi Nawang, (the Tibetan musician she produced). Julia, a victim of the fluid model of “marriage” in Australia, does not receive anything because her partner (now passed away) legally married another woman.


Jan Cornall      

                                     HER SHORT STORIES
               

1.    SEVEN HUSBANDS
 A woman in the village of Babanan in the district of Tabanan has seven husbands (not all at one time). One by one she rejects them, not for their ordinary looks but because they are bad lovers. That is until she meets husband Number Seven.

2.    CLOSE TO HEAVEN
Shy Celina was born in a Jakarta high rise and has promised her dying parents she will never go ‘down below’. Keeping her promise isn’t easy until she transforms her penthouse into a high altitude forest for rare birds. When the press want to hail her as an eco hero, she chooses to join the birds.

3.    THE GIRL WITH A SUITCASE
A girl rides her leathery dreams and goes becak gliding through the streets of Yogyakarta. Taking over the peddling she arrives at the Water Castle with gifts for the Sultans thirty-nine wives who bathe together in a blue pool, waiting to be chosen as ‘wife for the day’.

4.     READING THE SIGNS
Charlotte and Fardjar, members of The Society for Religious Pluralism, are opposite in every way. She is Buddhist, he is Muslim, she is tall, he is short, he is fat, she is skinny. So why don’t they heed the signs that appear in front of them everywhere they go - beware, danger, stop, look out?

5.     SEA MASSAGE
Wayan, a Lovina masseuse, makes a living massaging tourists in her shack by the beach.  The tourists tell her how they would love to swap places, but Wayan tells them her life is not so simple. Every morning she sends her worries out to sea until one day, the sea takes all her problems away.

6.     THE DUCHESS OF THE SOUTH SEAS
The Duchess of Pareng Endong sits naked in a smouldering garbage box near Parangtritus beach, with everything she needs - warmth, food, clothing. At night in the coconut grove when men take advantage of her she prays for them in Bahasa Berlanda. When a Dutch TV crew want to tell her story she disappears. Luckily they find a replacement.

7.    THE HOUSE OF A THOUSAND DOORS
A grand old Dutch building in Semarang has a colourful history and attracts ghosts from all over Java – famous, infamous and recently deceased. Open any door for a shocking surprise. Roll up! walk up! step inside, if you dare, – come after dark, come at moonlight , but don’t go down the left corridor , I repeat, don’t go down the left!.


TRIYANTO TRIWIKROMO
Triyanto Triwikromo is widely published, award winning short story writer in Indonesia. His anthologies are: Rezim Seks (Sex Regime), 1987; Ragaula (2002). Sayap Anjing (Wings of Dog) Short Stories, Penerbit Buku Kompas, 2003; Anak-anak Mengasah Pisau (Children Sharpening the Knives) published in two languages (English and Indonesian) by Masscom Media in 2003; Malam Sepasang Lampion,(A Night of Chinese Lanterns), by Penerbit Buku Kompas,2004; Ular Di Mangkuk Nabi 2009 (Snake In The Prophets Bowl)by Gramedia Pustaka Utama. His stories have also been published in the leading Indonesian newspaper Kompas and he has been nominated for Kompas awards in 2002, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008. In 2009 he received the Pusat Bahasa of Letters Award for Ular di Mangkuk Nabi in 2015 the Tokoh Seni Pilihan Tempo award after writing Kematian Kecil Kartosoewirjo. His works, including A Conspiracy of God-killers (2015), The Serpent in The Holy Grail (2015), and Upside-Down Heaven (2015), were showcased at the 2015 Frankfurt Book Fair.Triyanto is the chief cultural editor for Suara Merdeka, East Java’s major newspaper. He also teaches creative writing at Diponegoro University, Semarang.

 JAN CORNALL
Jan Cornall has written 15 produced plays and musicals, a feature film, a published novel and several albums of songs. Her novel Take Me To Paradise (Saritaksu Editions) is set in Indonesia’s Bali, and jazz poetry CD, Singing Srengenge were launched at the Ubud Writers and Readers festival in 2006. Her collection of poems and stories, Archipelagogo, illustrated by Indonesian artist Jumaadi was published in 2013 and was penned during a decade of travel in Indonesia. Jan’s stories and articles have been published in the Jakarta Post, the Daily Telegraph, the Adelaide Advertiser, Realtime Arts magazine Urthona Magazine, Gang re:Publik and ArtsHub.com.
Jan has edited a number of books including On Nothing, Sitok Srengenge, Collected Poems (Kata Kita), Gang Re:Publik  - Australian Indonesian Creative Adventures (co-editor), Recipes For Everyday Life by Alison Nancye and The Electronic Swagman  (Halstead Press) by Raymond Hawkins.
For ten years Jan taught writing at Universities in Sydney (WSE, UTS) and has given master classes at Diponegoro University, Indonesia. She has been a guest writer at numerous festivals in the Asia Pacific region including: Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, Hong Kong Inernational Literary Festival, Irrawaddy Literary Festival (Burma), Mountain Echoes Literary Festival (Bhutan), Utan Kayu Bienale (Jakarta), She leads popular workshops and journeys for writers in Australia and the Asia Pacific.


(c) All materials cited here are the copyright of Jan Cornall and Triyanto Triwikromo

House Of A Thousand Doors

Roll up, roll up, to the house of a thousand doors. Step right up, step right up, to the house of a thousand doors. Walk this way, slide along, glide along, but don't knock on any old door, and
don't go down the left corridor, I repeat, don't go down the left corridor, keep to the kanan, then tirus, tirus tirus tirus, don't go to the left, I repeat, don't go down the left…

Some doors you can open some doors you cannot, lie down on cool flagstones when the weather is hot, walk right up, walk right through, come after dark, come on the full moon, come when the shadows are bright and gloom is washing the colours out…

 Follow your guide beneath torch-light, ascend the landing, gaze in awe, at the big stained glass window, say a prayer for those who happened to die right there, hear their screams as they plunged the blade, listen to the air rushing past, the last gasp of a ventricle sliced in half, hear their moans, skulls split and slide, and blood spurts across marble white...

And the shuffle below of one who survived, the hunched old frame who saw it all, who knew what went on behind each closed door, saw the Dutch, saw the Japs, all the snivelling traitors, collaborators, torturers, interrogators, but the Javanese spirit would not be cowed though thousands died in cellars dark, and local warriors played their part, he a lowly houseboy saw it all, now a bent old man, he shuffles around, dosses down, in a room out the back on a mattress of grass, now he is the master of the house…

The house of a thousand doors.

Roll up, roll up, glide up, slide down, ride the bannisters all around, leap off balconies, canoodle and collude, a lot of collusion lies here in this stone, these bricks, tiles, fine teak all colluding away when the little Hitler's had their day, and when their day came for punishment, some say it was meant to be, some say it was destiny. Dutch men and women, Belanda blonde, interred in camps by rule of Nippon, their pretty young girls taken away, to be used by soldiers in unimaginable ways,
but whose come-uppance was a-coming any day…

In the house of a thousand doors

Roll up, glide up, slip up, slide along, leave your socks on for sock skating fun, in long wide corridors filled with glory and sorrow, for sorrow will follow when glory is borrowed, is taken from those who trust in a future, but when it is glorious for only a few, then you better watch out, you better beware, fate will find you and settle his score with you there…

In the house of a thousand doors.

Roll up, roll up, warm up, sidle up, sing a tune as you go, a sad song, patriotic song, a love song, a warrior song, a song of shame, a song of defeat, a song that has everyone tapping their feet, fill the halls with arias, rooms with concertos, the ceilings so high, the acoustics are perfect, raise your voice, lift it up to the roof, and call up the ghosts if you need any proof and watch as they float tall through the French doors, and click, click, clop, clop across stone chequerboard floors, and if you are scared open adjoining doors to the next room the next, and open them all to the balcony so wide and grand, lean yourself out to the court yard below and imagine it all in times long ago..

 The house of a thousand doors

Walk up, roll up to the house of a thousand doors, but don't, I say don't, proceed down the left corridor, if you are scared, need some proof, watch the caretaker shine his torch on the floor, walls catch a glimmer of a figure tall with blond hair so long it becomes her dress and covers, not covers, her nakedness, the Belanda who visits late every night when his shift is done and shoulders are tight, she appears to him when he goes for a shower and his wife wonders why he always takes hours..

In the house of a thousand doors.

Walk right in, step right up, come on in, you never know your luck, you only have to spend a buck to take the tour, just a measley few pence to see, which ghost is in residence…

Is it Promoedya who walks the land still, the people's hero with more stories to tell, his dark side buried deep, his secrets only for him to keep and if you dare knock upon his door you might find more than you bargained for…

In the house of a thousand doors

And what of all those slaughtered alive in the horrible purge of Sixty Five, with no museum displaying the skulls, no killing fields for tourists to come, for there was not just one field, every town had a well, where bodies were thrown, left to rot, as history prefers to remember them not, you can say a prayer for them here…

In the house of a thousand doors

And Munir and Wiji and others too, who risked their lives to save a few strong principles they couldn't live without, they couldn't live another day without saying what they had to say and knowing full well what they had to lose  - their wives, their children who bear the news and carry the flame for years to come, they live with ghosts, everyone…

In the house of a thousand doors

And there is Rendra lying in state, his words immortal, did he know his fate and what of his children left to grieve the strange circumstance of his death, did silver and sand really pour from his pores, find out all…

 In the house of a thousand doors

What of your life, the one you live now, you know its beginning  but how will it end, you imagine scenarios, run them through, is it heart or liver or kidney for you, is it accident, do you just fall down, a silly slip, a poisonous dip, a wrong turn, a choking moment, a nasty cancer long and slow, a career cut short, bad luck in sport, and when it does do you say, ah this is it, this is the ending that ends it all, the moment I was heading for, then it is gone, it's over and done, the story ended for you and everyone, just like in…

In the house of a thousand doors, the house of a thousand doors

the house 

of 

a 

thousand


dooooooooooooors




(c) Jan Cornall 2012

Seven Husbands

 A Balinese Folk Tale

In the leafy village of Babahan, not far from the city of Tabanan, lived a woman who had seven husbands. ‘Seven husbands!’ everyone always wants to know, ‘at the same time?’ and while I always want to answer, yes, maybe it was indeed so, all I can do is tell the story it as it was told to me.

One fine day, in the green ravine of the deep river that flowed past the edge of her father’s family compound, young Komang, on the way back from her mandi, discovered a secret. Lagging behind her older sisters, she had stopped to play on the mossy temple rocks beside the path. As she hopped from one stone to another an urgent itch arose between her thin brown legs, and scratching as a kitten or a puppy would without thinking or shame, she was surprised to feel a surge of pleasure in a part of her body she had no reason to give attention to before. Noticing she was well left behind on the steep narrow track and wanting to verify her discovery, she crawled into a gap in a bunga kerasi bush and lying down on the prickly twigs, scratched again. This time the sensation swept from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. She knew then it was no mistake, even meant to be, and that perhaps all girls were made like this.

That night when the last candle was dimmed and all the members of her family breathed heavily on their sleeping mats, she scratched again. Three times is a certainty she confirmed. This must be what married women giggled about late into the night as their fingers wove offerings for the temple from the succulent young leaves of the palm tree. This must be the pleasure of marriage she decided, and not wishing to use it up or exhaust it before its time, she deftly locked away her secret in the place it had been found.

A few years later, in the same leafy ravine, Komang, a child no more, crawled into the hollow of the bunga kerasi bush with a boy who whose teasing looks and flirting words had led them to this moment of anticipated pleasure. He was as good looking as she and their match as observed about the village was predicted to be a success.

Expecting to feel the sensation she knew to be her due, Komang was shocked when after a moment of clumsy grappling she felt as if a wood carver’s rasp had been dragged across her tender place and a hard pestle of stone, the kind she used everyday to make sambal for her family, was pounded into her as if to extract her piquant flavour.  Sorely dissapointed as she crawled out from the bush she determined ‘if this is what marriage promises, I will have no part of it.’ But a month or two later, when it was obvious to everyone (except her) that she was pregnant, her parents took her and her fiance, to consult with the Calendar Man.

Now this was not a shameful thing for everyone in the village of Babahan knew that that babies conceived in ravines or rice paddies and down by the smelly pig pen or the cheeping chicken coop, must be loved and protected and brought into the family of ancestors so everyone knows where they belong. And giving his blessing to their marriage, the Calendar Man warned husband-to-be that he must pay good ’attention’ to his wife or he and everyone around him would suffer. The family laughed at the innuendo, all except Komang. She was beyond laughing at anything. Despite her unexpressed misgivings (because how could she say – I won’t marry that man because he is not a good lover!) it all went ahead happily and Komang was glad to use her pregnancy as an excuse to take rest from her husband’s failings.

After the cute baby was born and the required ceremonies and days of abstinence were observed, her husband made his advances once more. Komang was full of hope that with time and effort they would find a new rhythm to their evening activities, but every night for a year the endless pounding continued. Until one day, Husband was gone. Where he went, no one really knew and neither did they ask for soon he was replaced by another and the family went on as before.

Komang had high hopes for Husband No 2 as his nature was kind and gentle and he lacked the arrogant confidence that had been her previous husband’s downfall. But in their marriage bed, Husband No 2 was so shy, nothing ever happened. If it did, it was over before it had begun. While feeling some amount of sympathy for his awkwardness and giving him some time to improve, after a much shorter trial period than Husband No 1, Husband No 2 also disappeared.

The third was said to have been trained in the ancient tantric techniques of a spiritual guru who lived with his followers on a mountain to the north. To build their stamina they followed certain dietary regimes and abstained from sex for six months of the year. The other six months they could make love but only on designated phases of the moon and were forbidden to spill any seed. So on the new moon, the dark moon, the full moon, the half moon, Husband No 3 would invite Komang into a specially prepared room to begin their ritual. As they began he would call out mysterious mantras, repeating them in a thunderous voice, building his energy to a steam train pitch, making grimaces and strange faces, so that in the shadow of candlelight Komang thought she was being ravaged by all the characters of the Wayang Kulit. After several hours of this activity Husband No 3 would fall over exhausted and Komang would crawl out from beneath him to get an hour or so of sleep before the dawn rooster started to crow. Satisfied and spent from the night’s activities, Husband No 3 didn’t seem to notice his tantric techniques weren’t working on Komang. I don’t have to tell you what happened next. 

Husband No 4 professed to be an expert on the fine art of tongue work and it is true - his methods were so effective that Komang could at last feel something akin to her expectation. His tongue flicked and licked like an avid cat and all was going well until the scrape of his stubble chin (Husband No 4 was unusually hirsuit for a Tabanan man) across her tender arousal ruined everything in a flash. Komang’s cry of despair was mistaken around the village for a cry of pleasure and they thought at last she had found her match! But in her great disappointment, she sent him from the marriage after only one night.

The fifth, an ex P.E. teacher and tour guide, loved to collect and read the holiday books American tourists left behind in his mini bus. Above the bed he made a bookshelf to house the battered pages of The Kama Sutra, The Joy of Sex and 425 Ways to Please your Woman. From the ceiling he hung a trapeze and Roman rings so every night they could try a new fandangled position. Komang, with an open mind and an interest in physical fitness, gave it a chance, but for all his avid research and physical prowess, Komang sadly remained unaroused and he too was gone within the month.

No 6 did his homework well before he entered Komang’s family. He talked to relatives and neighbours and studied the books left behind by poor unfortunate Husband No 5. He followed the discussion about clitoral versus vaginal orgasm and he was most interested to read that the G spot had been gazumped by the A spot and the U spot. He decided while a most common problem for men may be premature ejaculation, for women it must be premature penetration. A progressive thinker, he understood that some women needed a special kind of preparatory coaxing if they were to enjoy the marital pleasure men were accustomed to. He put himself in a woman’s shoes and imagined the to-do if all women demanded the sexual satisfaction most men thought was their right.

Husband No 6 admitted to a friend he was taking the marriage on as a challenge. Komang’s story had become famous as it spread from village to village up and down the mountain terraces of the district of Tabanan. Men and women alike were fascinated by how many husbands she actually had. Were they alive or dead? as they certainly were never seen again. Some said she kept them all in her compound - just like men who in days gone by had collected as many wives as they wanted. Where did she keep them? Who were the fathers of which children? Did it even matter? How many children did she have? In men’s eyes she became an unattainable conquest. He who could satisfy her would surely be a God. Women, instead of condemning her, cheered her on.  ‘Why shouldn’t a wife have her own taste of heaven,’ they proclaimed, supporting the stand Komang was taking for them. Only her family were fed up with all the comings and goings until they came up with money making schemes to fleece gawkers who happened to pass by their compound hoping for a look.

So when Husband No 6 came so well prepared, Komang laughed in his face. ‘You all think you are so thorough but did you ever occur to you to ask a woman how she likes to be touched?’ she exclaimed. ‘Perhaps you would like to conduct your research with ME.’ And so over a period of months during the long wet season, every night instead of making love, Husband and Wife talked. No 6 conducted his interviews as any research fellow would, with strict discipline and methodology, illustrating his findings with diagrams and graphs. When finished he compiled it all into a manual and gave it to Komang to read. She was impressed. Finally! Evidence of a man who really listened to her, right here on the page. Even reading it aroused her and she looked forward to their night of intimacy like it was her first wedding night not her sixth.

Everything started out well. No 6 began with a long massage. He had taken lessons from Komang’s aunty who had massaged her since she was young. He seemed to know exactly where to be gentle, where to be firm, when to pummel, when to stroke, and as he worked his butterfly touch in a circular motion towards her tender place, Komang almost allowed herself to think, ‘aaah yes, at last, this will be the one….’

But alas she thought too soon, for just at the crucial moment, just in the crucial place, he pressed too hard with the rough part of his hand, and mistaking her moan for pleasure plunged it in and didn’t stop until his own enjoyment was satisfied. Komang’s screams didn’t stop either. When he opened his eyes he realised to his horror, they were not screams of pleasure.

Komang didn’t stop screaming as she threw him out of her room, out of her house, out of her street, out of her village. She screamed at her family, she screamed at the neighbours, she screamed at the tourists, she screamed at the pig pen, she screamed at the chicken coop.

‘That’s it!  No more! I will live my life like a widow or a nun if I must. Since not a single man in all my life has been able to please me. I will please myself!’

And for a while she did, living without a husband, caring for her children and minding her own business, until one day the leaders of the banjar came to talk to her. To be an unmarried woman by choice was unusual, they explained. It was unsettling the men of the village and was giving the wives unhealthy ideas. For the sake of community stability they asked her to take a new husband and this time stay married for life.  And since she had decided to live as a widow, they continued, they had found her a perfect match - a widower. She would never be expected to consummate the marriage, for the man they had in mind was three times her age, toothless, blind and impotent!

That is how Husband No 7 came to Komang’s bed. Old Joko was cute as far as old men go with a cheeky boyish countenance which endeared him to everyone. He wasn’t fat, he wasn’t smelly, his white hair stood out from his head like rabbit fluff on a baby’s bottom and when he smiled his toothless baby grin you couldn’t help but love him. His wife had died many years before but he was very independent and you wouldn’t even know he was blind, for most of the time he didn’t use a stick.

Komang took old Joko in and looked after him as if he was her own grandfather. To share the bed with him was not a problem, in fact she was glad of the company, and for a laugh she often read to him from books the other husbands had left behind. 

Now most times they kept to their side of the bed with the dutch wife between them. But one cool night when unseasonal winds and rains swept up the valley, dampening the sawa and muddying the pig pens, Komang and Joko snuggled close for warmth. When old Joko reached over to pull the covers around them, Komang snuggled closer. How nice just to cuddle, she thought, and not worry that the man would soon be climbing all over you wanting to satisfy his need. She drifted to the edge of sleep and found herself in a blissful dream. Down in the the green ravine of the deep river that passed by the edge of her family compound, in the bunga kerasi bush near the ancient temple stones, old Joko lay by her side, pleasuring her in the way she had always imagined it could be. He didn’t once rasp or scratch or scrape or tear. He didn’t assert his need over hers but waited for her to lead him into all the mysterious places of her pleasure. He didn’t pound as he had no rising to pound with and he wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere. Like a busy honey bee he nudged and buzzed and poked his pollen laden nose in here and there, opening Komang one petal at a time, until at last her delicate flower bloomed.

All night Komang’s moans kept family members awake. Neighbours gathered outside the compound and crowded close to listen. When the bright night clouds drifted high over the bamboo, when they couldn’t listen any longer, they went home and made love to their wives as gently as Joko, as softly as moonlight on the sawa.

In the morning Komang’s family members looked tired and drained from their late night. Komang was in excellent form and announced she would be moving to Joko’s house that very day. Her family agreed at once. Indeed it had been unusual that on her insistence every other husband had lived in her parent’s house, but as there had been such a high turnover of them, village leaders had waived normal protocol. Now they claimed the success as theirs.

That day the family ferried Komang’s belongings to old Joko’s small house on the mountainside near the pagoda standing like a papercut against the sky. They settled in quickly, living a simple life, toiling hard by day and going to bed by dusk.  Farmers coming in from the rice paddies knew exactly when, for every night just on sunset when the evening mist began to curl over the walls of the temple, you could hear their moans on the wind. And even though by now they both must be very old, so old you would think they must have passed on and been reborn several times,  it is said you can still hear their song as it drifts across the sawa. Some say it is just the moan of the she-oak or the hoot of the night-owl, but we know it is Komang and Husband No 7, the one she saved her pleasure for.

(c)  Jan Cornall 2013

Glossary for Seven Husbands

mandi - shower

bunga kerasi bush - lantana bush

sawa - rice paddy

dutch wife - long sausage shaped pillow

Sea Massage

She massages the sea - the sea massages me - as she flattens the ripples and sends them away - back to the ocean of mealy shells - of plastic bobbing along waves of want - of white horses breaking over brows of boats - out fishing for their last supper.

She massages the ripples - she sends them out - to slither down backs of dolphins - backs of whales, sea riding turtles - who twist their noses in the direction of the east, the west, the north, the south, for they have forgotten which beach to beach themselves on, which sand to arrive at, which rock to slitter off.  They are befuddled, befrocked, bemoaned, becursed by the abundance of receptacles in their way, in their wake, on their watch - they slip and slide around, dive under, leap over, dodge and dribble, drunk and disorderly - they zigzag and slope - they career and caroon, crack and calumpf their way across a clear concrete wall, a plastic fantastic, a so-convenient, so expedient, so indispensable, so indisposable bottle top barrier, of see-through shapes, of bottleneck beggars, of bastardly breathers, of blowhole stoppers, of dastardly dealers, of sealers of old, harpooners of late (you don’t have to go to sea young man to know your fate), of crazy jelly fishers that drift and doze, like a land mine, a snare trap, a dart bomb, a nonkrong, a rift in the market, a raif rocket, a reeling back of old fishing spots.

She massages the sea, the sea massages her, for she cannot go far from the shores of her dreams, from her leaps of faith, from the lawn of her doorstep the sea dares to take - her children, her clients, her husband, her wok, her pot plants, her broom, her old cooking pot, her bedspread, her bed, her old 60’s clock, her cobwebs on walls that before ceilings stop, her bricks, her bed, her wardrobe, her laughter, her kebaya, sarong, her night table, her thongs, her bule, her one lipstick she traded like gold, her last piece of dignity wrapped in a shawl, her worries of things past, of things yet to come, of ‘when will they find me and bring me undone’. She massages the sea.

By day she picks up small shells, pushes them out like tiny boats to sail, to sit, to bob, to send a message in a bottle, send a letter, send a slogan, send a something, to ask the sea not to come into her house any more, not to sweep in her front door, not to do the spring clean, not to scrub the floors, not to take away the cobwebs or fill her cushions with sand.

She massages the sea while she implores - don’t take my cooking pots again, they are not so old, don’t take my children this time, please let them grow, don’t take my chickens, their eggs are all we have now, with red rice we pick from beside the road. Don’t take my bule, the ones I massage each day on the bed of our dreams, who come back every year with small gifts in their hands. Don’t take my bule, don’t take my bule.

She massages the sea, the sea massages her, every night salt sea foam laps at her door, her door is closed shut but still it gets in and creeps its coldness into her skin, under the sheet white night of her worry, she lies listening to the gruelling fierce squawl, the nasty smash, the heel cat hilt, the frowsy spot, the singular snag, the deafening raft, the cheating chignon, the curmugeoning near miss, the gorged carburettor, the opaque growl, the leery crunch, the charred rain howl, the frogulous hold of the worry 
the worry 
the worry.

She cannot escape it, she cannot subdue it, it rises in her like gas searching for gaps, for crevices, for fault lines of sagging, for cellular mischief, ye olde self slagging - it likes to come dancing and prancing and glancing off walls and nucleus warm and bouncing all over, creating a havoc of worry about something, about nothing, about anything, that if you go searching for doesn’t exist, that if you go looking for it’s not there, and you find only the stressing, the straining, the gassing, the graining, the slaying of good, the beating of happy, the defeat of possible, the replacing with something that’s gone to the dogs, the pitting of stomach, the holding of breath, you dare not, you will not, breath just in case, the shortening, the stumping, the lump in the throat, in the gullet, in airways, the pressing, the weighting on your tiny chest like a truckload of wet slab poured into your vest, the tightness, the steel band, the squeeze, the knife blade, the jabbing, the poking, the ribcage choking, the vice grip, the rack of your spate, the lumpy, the grumpy, the figuring of fate, the tricking, the trumping, the midnight gazumping
the crashing
the crushing
the crushing.

She lies on her rack in the grip of it all, relax take a pill, tip it out on the floor, roll over, lay it down, lick it for good, flatten it, pummel it into the ground, choke it, starve it, carve up all its bouncing cells, what’s the use of it, tell it once and for all - there’s no use, no use in fear - there’s no pay off, only slay off whenever it’s near, for fear of the future has only one need, fear of the now, the next moment, the one after, waiting to attack, bring the bad news, bring it on, rappa tap tap tap, come knocking, come ringing, come announcing its views, come happening, come landing, crashing into your day, so when it does, only then, at last you can say: I knew it, I knew it would happen this way.

She massages the sea in the dreams of her night, she feels its foam edging her outline tight as it slips under the door, along the sand floor, around the bed, into the cracks of the throw over sheet, following the thread of the old ikat that covers her bones, while husband drifts in the land of his moans, she feels bubbles creeping under her skin, she calls out to her bule to no avail, her bule is gone, already set sail to the land of the plenty, where kind gentle women sleep all alone and cry out in the night just like her, for someone, something, some god, some human, some creature, some spirit, some force, some light, some cloud, some rain, some mist, some flower, some brightness
some hope
some help
some hope.

She massages the sea the sea massages her, it massages her worries onto the floor, under the door into the night, across the cold sand, to arrive on a beach, on a wave of froth, to land like a whale in someone else’s bath.
Take them, she murmurs, take them all, into the squalling night of the thrall.Take them, she mutters, take them from me, send all my worries out to sea; the school shoes, the school fees, the bus fare, the offerings, the banjar, the doc, my mother’s broken arm, my father’s chronic cough
the hutang
the hutang
the hutang.


She massages the sea, the sea massages her, how good to feel fingers of sea on her skin, touch her breast, her stomach, her legs feel no pain, as sea pummels and kneads and gently strokes with feather like firmness where it’s needed most.

Sea doesn’t hold back sea doesn’t restrain and enters her tender again and again, for salt loves to gather wherever it can, in secret pockets of damp where later sun makes it gleam white and sparkle, and a creature will thirst with its rough tongue, and digging and mining and licking salt grease on his lips, will know that at last by a god he’s been kissed.

I’m ready,  she calls and sea does respond, by lifting her gently and rocking her lightly and picking her up and placing her down and smoothing out the skin of her frown, light as foam, free as bubbles,  lifts her from her bed, and out past her kitchen, through her front door, like a bridegroom in reverse, floats her gently, across her front porch, eddies her slowly, lingers a while, in the shallows, her favourite spot, then in one giant sweep, white water high, carries her out to the back and beyond, where veined valleys of sea break, lift and drop, as salt fills her pores, eyes, mouth, her nose drinking in brine, and fishes come nibbling
ten at a time.

Worry can’t nibble, can’t come any more, for waves have taken over the worrying floor and she knows to arrive on the other shore, she must let go, let go of it all, let sea massage away her tight knots, her pain spots, her crick and her creak, her sad and her happy, her difficult feet, her strains and her stress, her muscular limp, all sink to the bottom
all sink

                                                  
Morning comes rippling, comes stippling along, no more squalling, no more brawling all flat and abate. Sea calm, pastels lapping, peace pink on soft grey, sun piercing the surface with its first rays, tiny ripples come stippling and expand all around, touched with gold, tinged with flame, ripples spread all the way, dissolving into the lap of the bay. 
She massages the sea
sea massages
me




(c) Jan Cornall 2013

Sea Massage - glossary of terms
nongkrong - hanging out , doing nothing.
kebaya - traditional blouse.
bule - foriegner, tourist.
banjar - organisation that governs the village community.
hutang - debt.

The Girl With A Suitcase

The girl with a suitcase stands on Jalan Tirtodipuran; Ibus and Mbaks come limping out of tiny warungs, whose Monet-blue tarps flap in the wind, whipping up clouds of tiny thoughts blasted from volcano lids, like popcorn hitting the udders of docile cows, munching in mangers outside the ring road - Pop! Pop! Pop!

The girl with a suitcase waits and waits. Becaks flail past, wheels fall off, passengers tip out into gutters of slime, falling into murky memories or stepping into new smiles, new tandem possibilities of glamourous gliding, bicycle fashion and faux fez.

The girl with a suitcase waits and waits and when she can wait no more falls backwards and sleeps the moon hours in an old mans becak, brushing his leathery skin, hands hanging off his gnarled old knees, her head in his lap, snoring together, chests rising together, hiccoughing the night air in gulps, in glances, in guffaws, in grabs, in gripes, in great sighs of world weary wonderment, the girl falls into her place of sleep.

The girl with a suitcase shifts and wriggles, writhes and rolls, rabbits and ricochets off the sides of becak driver’s dreams as they toss and tumble their way along Jalan Tirtodipuran, Jalan Prawirotaman, Jalan Parangtitus, Jalan Mantrijeron,  Jalan Gading, Jalan Nyadi Suryan, Jalan Taman, Jalan Polowijan, Jalan Rotowijayan, jalan jalan, jalan jalan.

The girl with a suitcase takes out a map from her brown leather bag and with a click and clack and a shove of gold button to the left, to the right, she lays it down on the dreams of the Pak as he calls out the places and directions –kiri, kiri, kanan, kanan, tirus, tirus, tirus, tirus…
…. past the big hotel, the grand hotel, the small hotel, the love hotel, the divorce hotel, the gay hotel, the hot water hotel, the rude staff hotel, the my best friend hotel, the rip you off hotel, the make a mistake hotel, the laughing hotel, the weeping hotel, the last hotel, the murder hotel, the stuck up Dutch postcard hotel, the art hotel, the Padang hotel, the soft hotel, the too smooth hotel, the psychic hotel, the dukun hotel, the watch you sleep hotel, the never again hotel.

The girl with a suitcase drives the map and pedals the miles as the becak Mas, the becak Pak sleeps his leathery-long-old-dog sleep, curling his hide into the vinyl seat and drifting his snooze into mudguard landscapes, the ones he painted long ago when his sagging muscles were young and strong. The old Pak sleeps his dream into the blue green haze of the mountain scape; he snoozes his sleep by day, by night, by moon, by sun - into the cool green jungle plain that leads up the slope to the fiery lava top that spurts the blinding fog ash all about, that sends the pale gouache across the valley into his dream, like a cooling mist, hot and cold at the same time.

The girl with a suitcase pedals fast. She has the reins, she is the unctious rider, the peddelo, the panting proud pixie. She pedals, he floats; through the back streets, across the front streets, silently sweeping the sadness away, turning melancholy into a bliss bomb, blasting thru the sad sorry state of waiting, waiting. Exploding nongkrong, inveigling the murderous possibilities of past parochialism, not pining anymore for the one that got away…

The girl with a suitcase careers, carouses, carougles, calloigles, carrots, crayfishes, co-edits, co-imposes, co-opts her way through all the jalans, banyak jalans, gliding through the chinese quarter, the warung quarter, the batik quarter, the nong krong quarter, the kraton quarter, she flies, she flits, she flops, she unders the old Dutch gateway standing white like a Hansel and Gretel house, she overs the old Dutch gateway,  she enters the Kraton, she flies down the small streets, she floats along the big streets, like the queen of becaks she navigates, negotiates, neotates, nicobates, the home run, the last leg, the lost lump, the leonine line and arrives!  She arrives, he arrives at the proud gate of the water castle, the Taman Sari, the place of the royal blue water pools - the Sultan’s ponds, where from the tower he chooses with which wife he will spend the next day, the next night; from the thirty-nine wives in the big blue pool, who frolic and float and bathe and cool, collapsed in joy, in tears of love, in lasting bliss, in confusion, in craftiness, in competition, in caring, in consideration, in comfort, in gladness, for their lives, for their lives.

The girl with a suitcase wakes up in a blue green pool with thirty-nine wives and wonders; where is the Sultan?  Which one is he? Which era? Which year? Is he the handsome one, the artistic one, the gentle one, the cruel one, the fat one, the skinny one, the ugly one, the perverse one, the I like young boys one, the pious one, the overly religious one…

The girl with a suitcase, opens her suitcase wide, with a click and a clack and a shove of gold button, to the left, to the right, and like a magician’s assistant brings out gifts for the wives; lipstick and eau de cologne, eyeglasses, koala bear key chains and other useful things.

The girl with a suitcase lays it down beside the blue pool and while her old becak Pak sleeps at the castle gate, she dips and dives, floating front and back, she rolls into her place in the cool aqua blue, splashing and greeting and welcomed and smiled at, she wonders up at the sky with a new found feminine grace, and asks,

‘Will he choose me?’

(c) Jan Cornall 2012

 Glossary of Indonesian terms

Jalan Tirtodipuran - famous street in Yogjakarta’s hotel area.
Ibu - Mrs, mother respectful term for older woman.
Mbak - Miss, respectful term for younger woman.
warung - makeshift shop or restaurant.
becak - cycle rickshaw, with open carriage at the front, rider at the back.
fez - or peci in Indonesia - felt hat worn by Islamic men.
Pak - Mr, father, respectful term for older man.
Mas - Mr, brother,  respectful term for  younger man.
kiri - left.
kanan- right.
tirus - straight ahead, direct.
dukun - shaman.
nonkrong - hanging out, doing nothing.
jalan - street.
banyak - many.
kraton - royal palace district.
Taman Sari - the Water Castle, eighteenth century bathing quarters for the Sultan and his 39 wives, now a tourist heritage site.