The Drive But Not To The Cemetery
Photo owned by Anna-Louise on Pexels I lit my Dji Sam Soe cigarette at the end of the pathwalk, right next to your art studio, somewhere secluded in South Jakarta. The year was 2005, a year after Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge was released. Still listening to "Cemetery Drive" on repeat on my Discman, the battery almost dead from the week-long loop. “Did you get what you deserve?” I turned my head toward you and stared into the eyes that always pierced right through me. You—the painter, sculptor, and actor trained by the late W.S. Rendra himself. Seven years older than me. Wearing a necklace made from an old leaf with a bull skull pendant, and a torn Joy Division t-shirt. “Shit happened.” “You’re the one who created the shit in your life. Don’t you dare blame someone else—or this universe.” “Fuck off.” “You’ll be sorry when I’m gone, Ga. You better stop your shitty attitude, write those scripts, work your form, throw that ball during training—or I don’t know—go hike another...
