I’ve got the runs from all the different, rich foods, which is exacerbated dangerously by car trips taken along the mecca of potholes. Good news is I’m smoking less, the bad news is that breathing in Jakarta is like smoking a pack a day. While people in Solo might think I’m stupid for not knowing what’s going on at all times, here I’m made to feel stupid, good ‘ol big city sincerity…

My first glimpse into this fascinating world of stress was as I walked on the platform of the TransJakarta Busway. Instead of a subway (hopefully coming soon), they have the Busway which consists of a special lane protected by a high concrete curb only for TransJakarta buses. They are nice on the inside, and high off the ground. I almost felt like I was in a MUNI train in San Francisco. To board, you must venture into the middle of the traffic-jams to platforms like mini stations among the streets. From there, I got my first look at the long lines of cars, the tall, towering buildings, the clouds of exhaust, and the throngs of people striding and shoving towards their purposes.

The real Jakarta experience was in catching the busway home at the end of a busy Saturday. We got off one bus at Harmonie Station knowing that we had to transfer to another one whose boarding gate was some 100 yards down the corridor. We were joined by many others with the same thought in mind, leading to a more hurried than usual crossing of the gap between bus and station.The gap didn’t need a “mind the gap” sign because it was wide enough to make you really think about the 5 foot fall that would be imminent with a little slip or lapse of concentration. After hopping across, my friends went into a light jog, belying the anxious, competitive looks on their faces. I looked down to the end of the corridor, the terminus of the terminal, and saw the big city intensity mixing with non-existent notion of kampung privacy…it was going to be a tight jam. My friends and I were at a disadvantage already, a six foot tall, blonde haired, blue eyed, culture-shocked, naive and clumsy disadvantage named Sean. ‘Sorry guys,’ I wanted to say, but I was too busy trying to wedge myself between an iron bench and an ibu(mom/older lady) with a jilbab(Muslim head scarf).

After the initial excitement of poll position, there was some waiting…and waiting…and sunsetting…and waiting…and smelling…and waiting…oh my god, I might puke right now…and then an empty bus came! By this time, we had just as many people behind as in front of us, as more busloads had come and dropped more expectant commuters. The empty buses pulling up sparked our crowded mass to a shoving, shuffling scramble to the doors. The push from people behind weighed on my back as I tried to avoid getting my leg broken by the bench. The ibu to my right, who I easily had 35 pounds and 1 and a half feet on, actually beat me to the good spot we were both going for! I was surprised, but I could tell she wasn’t, must be the low center of gravity.. No direct eye contact just, hard, constant pushing from all sides until the man in the military uniform manning the bus door signaled it was all full. Not that his signal stopped the pushing, the people in this crowd would use any time or space to get a in a little better position. And then, more waiting……..

We were a little closer, but not much. It would take three more empty buses for us to get in, but when we did, it was worth it. I, as a foreigner, now had the advantage. Even though I had almost lost my lunch from the stench of humanity and smog, and proximity and intensity of the two, now that I was sitting down, I was able to smile large and goofy. “Wheew!” I said, looking to my jaded city-dwelling friend. She smiled too, I rare feeling we were able to share amongst the skilled pushers and scrapers of Jakarta.

As stories came and went, my stress kept mounting in the big city. The family house I was staying in began to grate on my nerves, with three small girls, six dogs and an ibu who actually made me scared of the word “makan” (eat). Her sharp insistences to everyone in the house, most of all I, the honored guest, to eat  became something I needed to hide from. She was a nice lady, but like I said, I became sick from all the food, and she still must have said “makan” or “minum”(drink) or “ambil” (take) or “enak” (delicious) in at least one of every five sentences the whole time I was there. The dogs, one of which in particular wanted to eat my liver, would bark and squeel savagely at any hour of the day or night. And while the kids were cute and a little nice to have around, they too would squeel at any hour and also had a hard time warming up to the six foot, blonde haired, blue eyed, culture-shocked, naive and clumsy houseguest that lumbered through the living room occasionally.

Personally things didn’t quite work out the way I expected in Jakarta, but as I said to a friend in an email recently: “You can’t expect that what you expect will go as expected here…Java’s in control.” The combination of that, the new news that classes were starting back at school, and a surprise pang of emotion from facebook news not unlike a heart attack, had me getting on the train to Solo two weeks ahead of schedule. I have lately been answering the question “How was Jakarta?” as crazy, dirty, busy, crowded, good food, awesome malls and I bought some good new music there. When pressed for more, I tell them the “makan” story. But Jakarta gave some other things that don’t belong in a short, sweet travel report. As many big cities will do, Jakarta kinda kicked my ass. Though I didn’t get the final push to the floor until I was back “safe” in Solo, which I missed the tranquility and familiarity of so much while I was gone.

Coming back to Solo after my big city experience was a giant relief. I was actually giddy on my train ride home, thinking of my friends, the food and the sweet, clean air over uncrowded streets. But things looked a little different this time around. It was as if the hidden, more sinister undercurrents of the culture represented in da JKT had followed me.

Because people speak so much faster in Jakarta, I really picked up my listening comprehension of bahasa Indonesia. This is great for the cause of understanding my professors as I attempt to take lecture classes in musicology this semester. But it has also made me realize that some of the many quick exchanges that people make that seemed so mysterious and cool can actually be kinda asinine, and maybe better left not understood. I can also hear if someone is making actual derogatory comments, whereas before I was just paranoid. In Jakarta, I didn’t get called out at on the street with so many “Hello Mister!”‘s like in Solo. People didn’t turn their heads and laugh or giggle at my arrival, at the most, I might get a smile or a sneer, depending on how they felt about me. But this honesty has a price, as the  secret of “what THEY really think about ME” might actually be revealed. It finally did when I was already two days back in Central Java. I went to a live comedy show on Valentine’s night featuring a famous group from, where else, Jakarta. My friend and I sat close down to the floor in the front row, my white skin clearly glowing in the theater lights. We couldn’t understand much of the show, but I did gather that it was a loosely followed plot heavily padded with partnered improvisation, the preferred mode of comedy in Indonesia, I’ve noticed. I began to be a little nervous as members of the audience were singled out and skewered at will by the actors. I took notes on how to handle it should it happen to me from the first few victims. While I am often treated with an uneasy respect, this was not necessary for the two comedians playing warrior characters with kesar(rough/crass) dispositions. Maybe they were waiting for the right time to use me, but when it came, and the fateful joke was made, the biggest crest of laughter of the night broke over the audience, the floor, the actors themselves as they rushed off stage with exhilaration/embarrassment, and crashed on me as every face and half the fingers in the room were pointed at me. I, of course, didn’t get the joke, but I think more than anything I was the joke. If my very presence on the street can make people giggle and squirm, just imagine the effect I would have under theatrical lighting, sitting hopeless and served up by professional comedians…

Jakarta had finally gotten me good after two weeks of floundering around the new cultural environs, trying to see where I stand. But if the rule of Java stands, there should be genuine benefits coming my way out of this situation. I find here that every day has it’s crap. I can expect to feel very frustrated, disappointed or despondant at some point during every day. But I can just as surely expect that profound beauty or genuine happiness will tap me on the shoulder at some other moment. They tend to balance each other out, and all the time in between is…well, an adventure.

The buildings are taller, the streets are more crowded with traffic, the people talk faster, the food is better, the prices are higher, and the rivers are dirtier. All the things I’ve seen in Solo and Jogja are here, just bigger. Even the unique cultural heritage and pride are here, but morphed into other more industrial and political forms.

Other than my time spent in cars and a tutoring center, I have been inside of a house that has the television on at all hours. Instantly I saw, even the tv here is better! The diversity of Indonesia is seen through the programming, with soap operas (called Cinetrons) in Arabic, and news in English. A very popular morning show strengthens the identity of Jakarta itself as it is broadcast live from one of the many supermalls here and is hosted by young comedians exuding Jakarta through fashion, dialect and attitude. They throw the word “dhong!” around at the end of sentences to exclamate a point, and speak with irony and even narcissism. One of the hosts was even a large, funny gay guy, try seeing that in mostly Muslim Solo!

Three little girls live in the house also, and they are treated to cartoons overdubbed in Bahasa Indonesia seemingly all day long. The cartoon shows are mostly from Japan and the US, so they must have all been painstakingly and costily translated, casted, recorded and distributed to make it on the air. All this so these little girls can grow up watching cartoons in Bahasa Indonesia, the new language of a new republic, with Jakarta at it’s political center.

Yes, Jakarta is a huge city, over 10 million people, and is a metropolis at the level of Souel or Los Angeles, and is by far the biggest city in Indonesia. This distinction and responsibility seems to be worn proudly and sincerely despite the modern sneer that any metropolis can develop towering over nature and tradition. Unlike an American metropolis like New York, for example, I think many Jakartans look out to their country’s diversity and natural beauty and see something not only worth preserving, but something that is a linchpin of their national identity and value, something that may even trump their modern sophistication. From seeing political speeches on tv and hearing religious oration on the radio, it seems that Jakartan leaders are attempting to use their vaulted position to serve and nurture the people of their country. It is indisputable that however big Jakarta is, Indonesia is still much bigger.

A cute metaphor that I thought of was Jakarta as the big brother in the Indonesian family. He’s grown up a bit, been to college and back, and has picked up a few nasty habits and refined tastes along the way. He’s sharp, but still a little shabby in appearance, and he’s trying to surround himself with people encouraging to his development. All the while, he is wishing in his heart for a more pronounced sense of independance in the world. Hey! Sounds like me! No wonder I kind of like it here…

It is a feeling of dread and doubt as I look at what I have accomplished so far and what seems possible in the near future. Considering my debt and approach to the end of a personal era, I feel like I’m just not going to come away with much, and that maybe I should just quit now. It is ingrained that I should not quit if I want to do something, but at what point does the world collaborate in this wish?

To find meaningful connections is tough because everyone seems so different, and incapable of understanding me enough to care. And I on other the other hand seem too busy and insecure to meaningfully understand other people. It’s a trap, and the outcome is empty on both ends. Even if I did become proficient enough at the things I enjoy, ie music, world music, theater, dance, performance and art as a way to connect to people, there is a high cutoff point in terms of making it. In all likelihood, those I admire are probably still not at a point where they feel like they’ve made it. I want to write letters to all of these people, but know how weird it can be to hear from younger people, asking for vague advice, acknowledgement or approval. It’s a hustle it seems, and I do hustle for the most part, but maybe not hard enough, and/or without enough of a cushion of relational support. It’s really just my family at this point. Really just my family, and I when I look at them, I see good things, but also limits that I can’t accept for myself. Kelly, who has reached a point of happiness and progress but lives in a way that leaves behind her past social ambitions, and my parents, who live with love but without the aid of friends, Kate, who is looking forward at a life with close friends and community, but with a reach short of global…I wonder where my place is. It isn’t right, that I suffer out on a limb, but maybe I am the best equipped for it, expanding the light of the family and so forth. But best equipped or no, it is very difficult, and I seem to be out of reach of the family that I desire, one of world-class artists prospering in a world of their own making. “Stuck in the middle with you”…with who? My ghost I suppose. This ghost just over my right shoulder, this one who pushes me on and monopolizes my future.

My childhood imaginary friend was named Ghost Coaster, more of a detailed concept than an entity, I guess. Not nearly as real and friendly as Nellie May, Kate’s companion for solitary play dates that were not at all solitary if you observed them. And not nearly as tangible and comforting as DeeDee, Kelly’s white blanket with blue satin fringes, that has accompanied her through thick and thin from birth up to the present. I had a blanket made for me at birth, and I had an imaginary friend, but both were really looked to as responses to my sisters’ attachments, not real, important relationships. My blanket was brown and didn’t have a name, and Ghost Coaster was a name I maybe assigned to the energy that I imagined leaping over telephone poles and from car to car as I sat looking out the window of our family’s ’85 Dodge Caravan. A ghost that coasted through the air and through my dreams, taking me with him in adventures in the etherworld. Looking at that now, like a shamanic avatar, me, but not me. The me that maybe needed explaining to others and externalization through a name to even exist to me beyond just the moments we rode together. Did I even know what it felt like to be on a roller coaster when I came up with the name? No, I couldn’t have, I was too short to ride, and too scared to realistically want to ride things like “the Demon”, “the Grizzly” or “the Giant Dipper”. But I was familiar and in love with the feeling, even if I could not yet experience it in my body.

I have enjoyed roller coasters from the time I could ride until maybe a few years ago. At a certain point, that feeling in my body was just not enough. I suppose now I need a return to the ghost, but not just alone, with everyone coming with me. By everyone, I mean everyone in the room, in the community, the group, the audience, the world, in a small sense. Well, now a small sense, but I can foresee that soon I will need to feel that yes, the world is joining me and my friend’s exploits in the everworld. That somehow it is reunited with its source, that I have become big enough to connect that leaping entity of telephone poles with the poles themselves. That I have become smart enough and equipped enough to build the poles supporting my ghost’s coaster. To give back to him the ability to fly, to leap and swirl while dashing around tight curves and impossible situations. To somehow train others next in line in the experience of leaping and flying with a scandalis grin and sharp-eyed focus.

My ghost is unhappy with me, or my world, or both. But it certainly is made up partly of me and partly of this world. It is unhappy at the imbalance, but maybe is part of the source of the problem. In darker moments like tonight, I blame the ghost, I blame the world, I blame myself. It’s all the same, it’s all wrong and it is all that could be right. It is everything wrong with me and my life, but I can’t shake the feeling that what it is is my life. That somehow this terrible dread and tectonic, cracking, wretched ripping open of my guts is my life and could not be any different…unless….

Unless that ghost were never part of my being. Unless his jumping over telephone poles and speeding cars were nothing but a circus trick sent to entertain me but be on its merry or miserable way. Merry or miserable, what do I care? This ghost has made these choices, to live this way and be who it is, so what if I gave it a name, tried to bring it in to the family? Maybe I’m just not cut out for the circus life. Ghost Coaster, as I call him, certainly isn’t one to have gushing feelings one way or another if I thrive or die. He would like to see me fly and he would be genuinely grateful if I built him the best ether-track he’s ever seen, but he will live, he will survive, and if I either gave up or died, he would find another soul to ride with. He cares, but doesn’t, like my friends and strangers in the audience, he is the ultimate observer and participant, and certainly knows a good time when he sees one. He is the true warrior who wastes no time with false sentiments and ego massages, he jumps right in, knowing that that is his calling and purpose for existing. “If I feel it, I feel it, if I don’t I don’t”, and that’s that.

And that’s cool. It’s cool with me, I admire people like that, but am not one of them as of yet, if I ever will be. I can find it when it’s there, like when I wait under that tree near the train tracks in my hometown of Redwood City, waiting for my Grandmother’s car to pull up. She will put the car in “P” as soon as possible and open her door and amble to the passenger side even before formally and affectionately greeting me. First things first, Sean’s driving. Why? Well…because I like it better when he drives, I could drive, but…well, he can better, c’mon, are you going to make me explain it? No, that’s why I do first things first, who needs the scene when the finale is given? I wait under that tree, talking, touching and observing it like an old, fragile friend, but one who is in reality younger than me when taking its own pace. The fragility of the interaction comes from the knowledge that I may never see it again in its current state in the flux of seasons and age, but also from the knowledge that it may never see me again in my current, or any state. How long will I be a young man taking the train back “home”, about to drive his Grandmother’s car? When will my hair ever look like this again? When again will my quirky style of dress appear in front of it on this planet? And indeed how long will this town with all its casual, dug-in walkers and parkers, meeters and greeters exist? Is that tree even still there? Whether or not it is, I appreciate every encounter I had with it, and it with me…not that either of us will get all mushy about it. We know the value of the lives we had together, and I will always carry our exchanges in my mind.

Maybe I never had the formal or even informal training to make it. Few do these days, but then again, few really ever do make it, do they? But Ghost Coaster is a special and unique entity, and we bonded way back, making me feel like for my lifetime, me and him are it. Unlike Earthly friends, he will not go on to other people and things, with me as just a memory in his wake. Not just yet, he has the time. Little Seany looking out the window was not his first and in all likelihood will never be his last. He is eternal. But I say “in all likelihood” because, maybe I will be his last, maybe I will build him the greatest ride of his life, and he will be free to leave the coasting life aside, having done it to its fullest. Mastery is attainable, for sprits and humans alike, though much more inherent with spirits. He is able to look at our relationship with detachment, because he has been there with many others and can be with many more, fulfilling his energetic track and living his intended purpose. But me on the other hand, it is on me to stick with him. But lately, I just don’t know if I can do it. Did spirit and matter converge with me, him and the Earth in this age, set to let us all ascend to the next course of our path? I of course would love to think so, and have loved thinking so. But is it really true, and is it worth it? Yes, I have one life to live, but I have to believe that I will have more in different forms, and in different ages. Can I look to him, my Ghost Coaster with the same detachment? This would truly give us a more equal dynamic as it was when I was young. “When I was a child, I thought as I child, but when I became a man, I put childish things aside…”but I want to take this opportunity to say that my imaginary friend was and is not childish, far from it. I am the only one who was childish, and I acknowledge the wisdom I had in that state. Wisdom in that I gave life to the ghost, I saw no difference between us, as he was merely an extension of my thought and living will in the world. Now it is so much harder, and this is becoming a man, I suppose.

“Don’t lose your dinosaur” is a quote from the movie Stepbrothers, a movie, like so many that I have watched repeatedly in my 20s, that is a comedy with old boys becoming men at their hearts. It was said by an even older boy who had chosen to throw childish things aside in the conventional way, and had accepted that but in some ways regretted it. “Don’t lose your ghost coaster” maybe he could have said. But following the natural course of things is the way stories progress and my story is dangerously close to something resembling loss. The loss of my ability to ride along with him.

Here on my Solo Mission, I am not able to drag others along with me, it just isn’t working. The music itself is not enough, the ideas themselves are not enough, and my personal charm is not enough. Whatever people want, I cannot seem to give it to them, and them to me. From all different angles too. You’d think okay, if the locals don’t get it, go to the other foreign students. If one group is partying too much, go to those who are more serious. If those too serious do not respect your efforts, go to other art students who may share things in common with you. If they are not carefree enough to share joy with you, go to others who have nothing to lose by caring for you. But by the time I’ve gotten to them, all my energy is so tied up in my commonalities with the ones before, that the remaining relationships don’t carry the weight.

So now my question is why do I need anybody? I’d like to be able to say that I don’t, that my music, ideas and charm are enough to keep me going just by themselves. But it’s hard to just focus on my internal world when the outside world and my place in it are knocking on my door louder and louder. Tonight has become today, and it is just about time to retreat to the activity that I am just as proficient if not better at as before, dreaming. Two nights ago, I swear I must have had the most amazing dream I can ever remember having. It was one, if I had can even call it “one”, that I feel I can take a bit of credit for, because of its stamina of powerful interconnecting ideas and events, a truly epic story transcending even the traditional definition of epic. It was at once intensely conscious of my deepest ideas about what is happening with me, the Earth and the cosmos in this era, completely rich, clever and humorous in its references within the ongoing developments of story, and honest, fulfilling and beautiful in its depiction of relationships between myself and other characters. This is something to mention in light of all the feelings I am expressing today, because although I can’t seem to keep up with my ghost as I walk in daily life, I am flying ahead, above, beyond and with him in my sleep. At least I’m still growing in some way. Lord knows I can’t sleep like I have been in this past rainy week after the holidays for long, but maybe I can still hang…I just have to wake up.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everybody!

It has been a distinctly different holiday season for me this year. The tropical climate, the absence of old friends and family, and the lack of Christmasy build-up so ubiquitous in America. I see that so much of what we think and do is influenced by cultural pressure, and without it life is a little more…naked. After Thanksgiving in America, everything around you says that something is coming, something big and important. Then when it finally comes, it IS pretty big and important, even if you’re not religious or a big Scrooge. But while here, I have had to manufacture my own pressure to get into a Christmas spirit.

This manifested as a big Xmas eve for me, a marathon day of shopping, friends, nice food and celebration. I got myself up at 6:30am, even after only about 3 hours of sleep. For me, that truly marks a special occasion! I had it in my mind to go shopping, motor bike or no, local guide or no, I needed to get up, get out and get some things. So I did, I took a bus to Pasar Klewer, a giant batik market inside the larger palace walls. I had been once before, but bought a shirt at the first stall I found and left. This time, I ventured in and was rewarded greatly. Batik refers to a process of textile design using wax and repeated dying, but in Solo, it goes beyond this to refer to a deep and intricate Solonese tradition, as well as the unique patterns and endless variations that occur within this tradition. Inside Klewer, vendors and stalls are stacked thickly next to each other, just like the shirts, linens, pants and dresses are  stacked inside each stall. It would be overwhelming if it weren’t so beautiful. Rather than panicked and anxious, I just felt as if my eyes were drunk, like these designs imbued me with special, tangible sensations of intertwining pleasure. While the vendors can be quick to get in your face and try to sell you something, it is not the Javanese way to be rude or overbearing. My knowledge of basic Indonesian was put to the test, but I did surprisingly well in asking, conversing, diverting and even bargaining, which is quite necessary and even fun in the traditional market setting. I came out an hour later with a t-shirt, some awesome shorts and easily the nicest dress shirt I’ve ever owned. This shirt cost me about 7 dollars, which was even a deal for Klewer, but in America, I would feel ashamed of myself for giving the nice and caring vendors this small amount. I really like and see the value of the traditional market over the conventional retail shop or mall. The prices aren’t fixed and the space isn’t concretely defined, so everyone is obliged to have real interactions and constantly negotiate and ponder the value of things. Isn’t it nicer to feel like you have a say in what you’re choosing, paying and supporting? At a department store, the service is a forced, uniform endeavor, with the feeling that in the end you are all just being manipulated by businessmen who buy large amounts of “goods”, set their price, and reap benefits from everyone doing the groundwork of making, selling and buying. In Klewer the “goods” are more like “greats” and their abundance is plain to see. No one is rich, but the place is, and everyone shares the benefit.

Flash forward to December 27th, when I got on the tour bus of Kroncong Iblis, the leaders of Kroncong in Solo. What is Kroncong? It’s a kind of Indonesian music that can be likened to jazz both in it’s style and historical background. It can be said that jazz happened when Africans in America got European instruments and went about creating music that combined European sounds with African soul. Kroncong also uses European instruments, brought by Portuguese colonists in the 19th century. Traditionally these are violin, bass, cello, mandolin, a ukulele-like instrument, and more recently they include guitar, flute and Javanese instruments like kendang (drums). Classic kroncong is very European-sounding,  but with relaxed, harmoniously meandering progressions and melodies kind of like Hawaiian music. But as Kroncong spread to different regions in Java, it combined with local sounds, patterns, rhythms and values. By the time it got to Solo in Central Java, it was a distinctly Indonesian music, and was very popular. As little as 15 years ago, there was a kroncong group in every kampung (neightborhood) in Solo, all competing and creating new styles using different aspects of Solonese music. An example of the local creations is the way the cello is used in Kroncong Iblis. I can pretty much guarantee you have never seen or heard anything like it if you’ve never seen or heard Kroncong. The cello has only three strings, like the bass and ukulele, and they are plucked, slapped and muted with the hands rather than played with a bow. The patterns are usually similar, and mimic the rhythms of the kendang in traditional Javanese gamelan, providing the low end with a shuffling, accentuating movement that is both cool and hot. It’s the kind of sound that makes you wonder where it’s coming from, only to watch the cellist’s hands and try to keep up. Nowadays, Kroncong Iblis is one of the few groups left in Solo keeping the tradition going, but with their skills, expertise and unique take, they are leading a resurgence.

I went with them to TriJaya in the Western part of Central Java, a trip I had misgivings about at first, but after hearing some details, I saw that it was the only thing to do. They played at a Javanese New Year celebration for a spiritual community that brings members from all over Indonesia to the TriJaya complex every year. I performed with them actually, something that made me very nervous at all times, but once I got up there with them, I was reunited with my God-given performing gift and felt great. I joined them as a dancer, dressed up in Javanese costume and everything, and performed a Joged (social dance). I wondered how my friends back from the Indonesian dance classes at UCSC would feel if they saw me or better yet, if they were in my position. I was so nervous because my skills at Javanese dance are unpracticed and miles away from the proper way everyone in the audience is accustomed to. I want to eventually perform a bit that is more bent towards a “Java-meets-California” kind of experience, as I share dialogue and dance moves with Jaya, the lead singer of the band. But it went okay, and more than anything allowed me the opportunity to be a part of the 2-day celebration. The next day, me and my American friend Maeg, who sings absolutly beautifully in the Javanese style, were invited to walk in a procession parade for the Goddess of the South Seas. We walked about 5km around the surrounding countryside joining with a long line of colorfully dressed musicians, dancers, characters and community members. It was remarkable, despite my initial indignation at the prospect of being a “bule” (foreigner, literally “albino”) on parade. When the parade concluded, everyone converged around a tall mound of ornately decorated fruits and vegetables that had been carried on a platform throughout the procession. It was dropped to the ground, and a Javanese mosh pit ensued! I didn’t know what was happening at first, but eventually got it that the fruits and vegetables were the prize that everyone was pushing and scrapping for, said to be spiritually charged and to bring good luck and health in the coming year. I dove in and came out with a nice eggplant, banana, red chili and some green beans. It just felt good to be a part of everything, and people were so nice and joyful that I saw that I didn’t need to feel nervous and awkward, which is often my default in new situations like this.

But after this hulabaloo, the special intention behind this meeting of Javanese souls opened up to me. The next event was described to me as a demonstration of magical power. I had studied about trance ceremonies in Indonesia back at school, and had seen a small sample at the Solo Ethnic Music Festival, but not yet something real, traditional and right before my eyes. It was told to me later that this wasn’t “trance” so to speak, and I still don’t quite understand what it was exactly, but I’ll share what I saw. A truck with musicians pulled up and they commenced playing a sweet groove with drums, gong and a reed instrument that I normally associated with Sumatra, that sang in a high pitched  melodic wailing. A large oval space where the mosh pit had been cleared, with people all around, and into the space entered men of all ages. Then one man in particular, a man a had met before with little ado, entered but held a different disposition, one of mastery, peace and concentration. The other men jumped towards him with their fists flying and legs flailing, faces all contorted in violent tension. None of the blows landed, even as the crowd around the master grew to encircle and overwhelm him. The master remained calm, moved slowly in a stlye similar to Tai Chi, slow, focused and intentional. Just as certain men began to limit his movement he lashed out into punching, pushing and very slight flicking movements, again with touching anyone. At this the attackers fell backwards, tumbling in response to the invisible energy the master projected. They always came back, more incensed and furious in their attacks, but they couldn’t touch him. At first I thought, okay, they’re just pretending to not be able to hit him, and getting out their aggressive energy. But as it went on, this became a less plausible interpretation. The intense “acting” of the attackers was becoming more and more out of their control, they wanted more than anything to be able to hit him, and when they were blasted back on the ground, they writhed in pain. To watch the energy being transferred between the master and the attackers was to see a unified reflection of something being shared between everyone in the space. They would try to rise up, but be pushed back, shading their eyes from what seemed like a blinding light. They would store up the strength and find the perfect moment to attack, but be stifled when they reached the master, held at bay, and then dealt with in due time by the master who delivered energetic blows that sent them back with a power similar to what they brought to him. There was not only one master also. To demonstrate the magic further, a woman brought out a young boy, not more than 3 , to take on the attackers. He was understandably frightened at first, as the men around him flailed violently with the intention to defeat him. But the master stood over him for a while and imbued him with confidence and the same power that he used, and in a short time, the child’s movements sent the attackers flying. Also, the woman who had brought the child out started to draw attacks, to the point where she would not be able to leave the circle without disposing of the fighters. She was in late in middle age and dressed in a beautiful traditional dress from the parade. She too was a master it seems, because she fought off crowds of opponents with the same techniques as the earlier master. She was slightly weaker than the first master, and at times I worried for her as she was crowded by 7 or 8 strong young men punching and kicking with all their might. But while it took tremendous energy and focus for her to keep them at bay, she was successful and even delivered one of the most impressive attacks of the event, sweeping in circles as she spun, dragging the attackers with her hands as if with a net, catching one after another, until she had quite a catch of would-be attackers slumped together on the ground. The music and the fighting continued for about 30 minutes, creating a drama and shared experience that I later found out was a ruatan ritual, cleansing the community, and reversing bad luck or stuck energy from the past year. The young men, wincing on the ground, were brought back to reality by older men around the circle who put their hands on them and whispered hushed words into their ears. It was all over when the musicians stopped playing, sounding the final gong, and the crowd cheered. I had read about the ruatan ritual before, and had actually wished for one last month, hoping to somehow be freed of the bad luck that I’ve had here trying to get adjusted. I didn’t think I’d actually get one, not being in any traditional Javanese community. But here it was, and my indignation, anxiety, and uncertainty about this whole thing started to melt away. I saw that even if I couldn’t communicate very effectively, that didn’t mean I had to feel ashamed or miss out on opportunities where it was possible to communicate with humor, appreciation and respect.

The TriJaya experience concluded at midnight that night, as the Javenese calendar progressed into the new year. I was told about the next event for the community, a ritual mandi (bathing), and invited to join. In between the ruatan and this I was able to converse with a member of the community who filled me in on what it was all about, but of course not all. This community is all about getting into, living and celebrating traditional Javanese things, things from before all the imported religions came in. It was described as belief, not religion, and the martial arts were part of it as a practice handed down for many generations. My friend, Pak Darsowo, shared all this with me in English, because not only was he himself a growing master of this style, chairman of the Jakarta branch, but also an English teacher. He himself did not believe in any of this as a boy studying karate, but as a teenager, his father challenged him to a fight, offering lots of money if his son could land a blow. Without belief, without trance, young Darsowo could not hit his father, every blow being diverted around it’s target. This is why he says it was not trance before, but a demonstration of the focused power that God endows to us all when we are in the womb growing and surviving. Belief with results, respect with power. My mind was spinning, yes I was interested in learning more, and the ritual cleansing thing sounded interesting, but… My own upbringing and experiences with the continuum of religion and belief in the contexts of groups(I’ll say it, maybe you’re thinking it…cults!) created walls and nervousness as I approached this prospect. But you know what? It’s just a bath, it’s just a blessing, and there’s nothing in  me that wanted to continue giving life to my nervous walls, it’s much more fun just being happy in the moment and allowing life and power to come from the inside out. So I did it, and it was nice. Apparently I was the first foreigner ever to take part in this ceremony at TriJaya. Crazy? Big deal? Yeah, but not. Things changed for me in this experience, but they would have changed if I’d stayed at home too. I’m glad I went, and if anything I’ve been given a new, more detailed experinece of what “magic” is, how it can be given form and how it can benefit a community. If you’ve read my entry about Berlin and electronic music, you know that this is an ongoing investigation for this man on a Solo Mission…

I have recently been invited to speak to an English Language community at nearby university, UNS, and the two contacts have informed me that they want me to speak about Solo, it’s culture and how it compares to where I’m from. Today they came by and dropped off a two paragraph long “paper” that one of them wrote describing Solo from their perspective. At first, I was confused, not knowing if they wanted me to read this paper to the group or to edit it, or what. Then I started to read it, and had a small inward scoff at the somewhat awkward and sometimes incomprehensible sentences (I know, I’m so judgemental, if I tried the same thing in Bahasa Indonesia, they would have more than a scoff I’m sure). But upon actually reading the whole thing, I was stunned to find that what my new friend wrote was a very concise and insightful summary of Solo’s unique appeal for the world.

Indonesia is very unique on the whole because of its geographical characteristics, which like anywhere heavily influence it’s culture, economy, development, etc. It’s huge, one below the US on the list of national population, and it is about one-third water. The large collection of islands create a string of cultures that are intensely different not only from the rest of the world, but from each other. But even since before the Republic of Indonesia was created, I think the cultures were linked while still maintaining independence. In my friend’s paper, he listed a number of dances that are unique to Solo, and of course Gamelan, the traditional orchestra. There are two palaces here, unique food which is often both delicious and inexpensive, parks, stadiums and theater complexes that have been in place for many years and are distinctly Solonese. Indonesia and Java have seen many cultural influences over the last couple of millenia, Indian, Chinese, Arabic, European, but still the music, dance, food and places that were mentioned in the paper are all mostly Javanese, or Central Javanese, or Solonese. These three terms can be interchangeble in reference to some things, which means to me that Solo is really a powerful culture center with deep emanations circulating beyond the seemingly simple streets, buildings and kampungs (neighborhoods) within the city limits. It’s hard to really get this just walking around, it’s not like being in the Middle of Times Square or anything, but it is true.

In the first few weeks here, I visited Mangkunagaran palace, and was lucky enough to be free to go inside the main pendopo (think like a huge, open air, inately artful gazebo fit for royalty, the court, musicians, dancers and guests, itself like a perfectly tuned cultural antennae with a single spire pointing up from the center of the harmoniuously angled roof). I was able to explore undisturbed, and as I entered, I immediately felt my whole body and being become sssllllooowwwed down, filled with a sense of majesty and a respect for the power of, for lack of a better word, the place. I just imagined what it must have been like with the king seated right over there, the gamelan resonating up to heaven and the dancers sweeping onto the floor with celebrated, profound grace. I started to go into a moving meditation, moving my hands, arms, head and posture into a free-flowing semblance of what I knew of Javanese dance from what I studied in California. My teacher always said to keep the back very straight and tilt the head slightly downward, looking at the floor about 3 feet in front you. It always felt awkward trying to do this back at school, but inside the palace pendopo, beneath the ascending shelter of the immaculatly decorated interior, I understood. The reverence, and diligently practiced graceful restraint of both the music and dance was for this purpose, to be in this place performing and striving to honor this standard of earthly and heavenly accordance. Art, royalty and spirituality converge in this place, and the testament is in the feeling, the tangible power, rather than words. But from what I know about the Javanese language, it also fits right into this paradigm and plays a major role. Tidak bisa (I am not able) to get into this too specifically because tidak bisa bahasa Jawa (Javanese language), but it is also something that can be felt when you hear the singing or observe the unique, sanskrit-like, but more graceful Javenese script.

This was about three months ago, and was my introduction to “the Spirit of Java”, though I have not reflected on it until now. By now, I am more familiar with the particulars of what Solo has to offer, and my friend from the English club has it right, there is a lot. At least enough to be able to argue that Solo has tremendous potential for tourism among those who enjoy the eating and drinking of culture. How this “compares” with the also culturally powerful San Francisco, where I say I’m from, or near, I’m not sure yet. hopefully I’ll come up with something by Monday.

How this all relates back to me, here on a Solo Mission, is that I am experiencing a bond between me and the world of art that my computer offers me. The films I watch have been like this in the past, and continue here thanks to my DVD-drive. I even found that I connected in this way while in Theater classes at UCSC, as the plays I read seemed to meet me in exactly the place where I needed them for one internal purpose or another. This leads me to believe that I and my imagination play possibly the largest part in all of this. Subjective? Most definitely. But through art, one’s imaginative world is shared and communicated to another’s imagination. An exchange is evident and takes place as received through the physical body and environment, but registers and finds life in the intangible. This is where magic exists in it’s most basic and ordinary form, not in rabbits coming out of hats or other physical tricks of the objective perspective.

This week I attended a birthday party for my friend Anne, and my contribution was related to this growing relationship I have with my computer. People talked about putting on a movie, but I knew that a normal movie-viewing experience would short-circuit the conversations and celebratory energy in the small, friend-crowded room. I reached for a nature documentary I just picked up called “Earth” a feature film from the producers of the amazing tv programs. Instead of playing it straight, with evocative symphonic score and Patrick Stewart’s smoky baritone narrating, I put on my iTunes, and switched on the shuffle button. It was mind-blowing, but still subconscious enough to preserve and enhance the existing vibe of the party. By adding this random factor, the viewing experience was given life, and the viewers enjoyed excitement, amusement, anticipation and a heightened aesthetic awareness. Many times throughout the night, friends observed the perfection in motion with a reserved delight (my delight was not so reserved:), and though it may not have been the highlight of the week for them, I love that what I consider magic was shared without the inflated amazement and ego trickery of the slight of hand variety.  My music and me are growing close, so close, it’s like my computer knew when to play my favorite song. Out of over 20GB of music, it chose literally one of my favorite songs of all time towards the tail end of the film, when I could give attention to the movie and really sit and enjoy it. The songs I’m making are still in development stages, but I can only hope that my connection to them develops into more magic to come.

Yeah, the language barrier is an interesting thing to negotiate. Some of my friends have decided to capitalize on the fact that they can get by just speaking English, and they can, but my path has lead me to situations where I am involved with and surrounded by people whose words I cannot understand AT ALL. The two months with Rosetta Stone before I left were fun, but honestly, they barely helped me at the beginning. It taught “proper” Indonesian grammar which I have seldom seen or heard here in Solo or in Jakarta. The fact is that Bahasa (language) Indonesia is not the first language of most Indonesians. If you’re from Java, you speak Bahasa Jawa with the fluidity, expression and comfort of a native speaker. Bahasa Indonesia is okay in Java, but among friends and compatriots, the Javanese don’t speak it. So there’s decision number one for someone new to Solo, which language to learn? I wanted to be all cool and learn Javanese, but after having my pronunciation of the sound “ng” corrected for 10 minutes by kids on the street, I felt it would be a little ambitious. At least I could be understood if I spoke Indonesian. I have a friend from Sumatra who is in a similar boat in relation to Javanese. He has taught me bits of his native language, and amazingly, it comes much easier to me than both Javanese and Indonesian. It is simpler and more to the point than Javanese and it has more soul than the also “simple” Bahasa Indonesia. But I’m not in Sumatra, so that wouldn’t really help anything.

The question of language is more than practical, it is social on superficial and deep levels. An American friend of mine in Solo is very concerned with not offending the locals. She sacrifices her clothing and hair styles in order to fit in, and she puts in hours a day working with a perfectly bland Bahasa Indonesia workbook. On one hand, it does show respect to attempt to appreciate another’s culture. But on the other hand, if it is done grudgingly or in a way that only fears judgment, who is really being respected? It is true that people do judge based on appearances, so trying to fit in is a necessary tactic at times. As a foreigner, I attract a lot of attention anyway, I think everyone would be more comfortable if I didn’t require excessive special attention. I try to be grateful for the things that make me stick out. I brought my electric bass with me, and I’m very glad I did for the way it allows me to be special. I thought of just getting a guitar to play while I was here, but the truth is that everyone plays guitar, and most guys on the street play and sing popular American songs better than me, a popular American! But seriously, I don’t want to learn the language so I won’t be glowered at. I want to learn it so I can allow others to be themselves more easily. For example, when my Sumatran friend speaks his native language with a friend from his village, his face takes on a whole other appearance, as his facial muscles relax and he can be offhand, clever or profound. When he speaks Indonesian, he is comfortable but more joyless in his expression. When he speaks English, he is laughing often, but ever in a state of slight nervousness and exertion. If I force him and others to speak English by not learning their language, they will be ever off balance when speaking with me. Of course, the same thing happens to me when I am not speaking my native language, but I must try to strike a balance between allowing myself to be comfortable and allowing others. Hopefully we will find a place where we can both be ourselves and enjoy a more flexible and expanded sense of comfort. It is the same way with the art projects that I am getting into, but more on that later. The real question for me is which language should I put in the hard work into studying? I think it has to be Indonesian. I had my first private lesson last week, and it was a bit expensive, but very helpful.

Of course, when I say expensive, I don’t mean expensive in American dollars. My relationship with money here is steady but complex. I receive 1 MILLION rupiah every month!…but a bottle of water costs 3000. The exchange rate is something like moving the Indonesian price’s decimal point over four places to find the US dollar equivalent. So yes, that large bottle of water costs me 30 cents. With that in mind, it might seem like a shopping fairyland out here, but there are other considerations. According to my agreement with the Indonesian government, I can’t have a job while I’m in the country, so what I get is what I get. It’s nice to have the stability, considering I could be a recent theater arts graduate job-hunting in a financial crisis zone stateside. But, as my American dollar situation is outlined in the last post, I cannot really enjoy the benefits of rupiah-dollar relations. The thought of “Hey, I just got this for 30 cents!” becomes only a part of comparing game where i can think about how things would be if… The reality is, I make about $100 a month, so I need to look at that 3000 rupiah more like 3 dollars rather than 30 cents. It kind of evens things out. I had some money from a garage sale when I arrived and that allowed a nice cushion. I was also hanging out mainly with other English-speaking students when i arrived, and that was a nice cushion. But more and more, I am…In The Thick.