The Drive But Not To The Cemetery
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 mountain. You’ve been losing yourself and your purpose for almost six months.”
I turned off my Discman, took a deep drag from my cigarette, stood up, and walked toward him.
“Okay, Dad. I hear you.”
“Cut that shit. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“You’re gonna cross the line now…”
“Oh yeah, I’m crossing the line. Then you’ll burn the bridge—just like you always do. Your mum can dismiss you. Your dad can gaslight you. But not me. I spit facts to your face—whether you like it or not. Grow up.”
We stared into each other’s eyes.
I almost cried—because he was right.
I was failing. School. Basketball. Theatre.
No matter what I touched, I fucked it up.
Every time I failed, I’d walk to his studio—from my friend’s house, or the internet café I worked and crashed at.
I had nowhere else to go.
I only had him.
And my guitar.
My only lifeline.
“I’m done,” I said, turning to leave.
“I’ve been asking you to stop running. Face your goddamn failures. This isn’t the end of the world. I got you. We have a plan. Us. Together. I made you a promise. Please think again.”
“I am done.”
“Can you at least give me one more hug before you go?”
I didn’t. I just kept walking.
And made even more mistakes—piled up over the years.
Weekend traffic in South Jakarta was already unbearable—and it wasn’t even lunchtime. I drove past your studio. That last conversation flooded back. I pulled over, put on “Cemetery Drive” on my CD player, and drove toward my cousin’s music studio.
It was 2014. I promised to visit him since I was nearby. It was my first time back in the neighborhood after spending a few years in Japan, then burying myself in work and personal projects. Every street. Every food vendor. Every illegal pool joint. Every little shop that used to sell cheap, deadly booze—stabbed my chest with flashes of you.
I arrived when the sun was already too high. Parked my car. Walked in. They greeted me with weed, booze, and Guns N’ Roses playing in the background. One face stood out—familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Turns out, he was my junior in junior high. Two years younger. Now a pretty successful business owner.
“After you disappeared, we barely heard anything from you. That’s when I met Bram. I helped with one of his art exhibitions in Bandung back in 2009. Thought he was from there, but turns out, he lived in the same neighborhood as us. He knew your cousins, but said he never visited this studio.”
“Art exhibition? Painting? Sculptures?”
“Yeah—and installations too. He quit the theatre after W.S. Rendra passed. Said it was too hard to continue.”
“Do you still have pictures from the exhibition?”
He took out his phone, opened Facebook, scrolled through his albums, and showed me 30, maybe 40 photos, videos too. It was beyond what I imagined. Bram kept his promise. He made two paintings, three sculptures, and one installation, based on our ideas. Faith. Purpose. Wounds.
“He passed away last year, in a motorbike accident, right in front of Pancasila University. Late night, high speed. Avoided a drunk driver, slipped. His head struck the roadblock, and half his face hit the asphalt. I’m sorry, Ga. Bram told me about you, about your history. Said you were supposed to have that exhibition together.”
I froze.
Almost dropped his phone.
Sondi, my cousin, grabbed me just in time—took me to his room, calmed me down.
I didn’t come back to South Jakarta for him.
I came for my mum.
But that day… it weighed heavily.
Not as her eldest daughter.
But as a woman burdened by regret since 2005.
He was my first love.
My first muse.
My first real, tangible lifeline during my hardest teenage years.
The next day, I drove to his art studio, the pathwalk was still the same, but the studio wasn’t. The first door was open, inside—his father, long hair, painting a giant canvas, dominant red. The legendary painter remembered me. He asked me to come in, poured me tea.
He gave me Bram’s journals.
Photos from an old Fujifilm analog camera.
His Walkman. Cassette collections.
Two photo albums full of us.
Letters on tissues and torn notes.
(I’ve kept them all in storage somewhere in South Jakarta.)
Then he took me to a different room—a separate studio where he kept Bram’s paintings, sculptures, and the installation.
The whole space smelled like him.
Like bourbon. And smoked wood.
“This is still one of your homes, Mega. You can come back anytime you want. That’s what Bram always wanted. He was waiting for you to come home.”
“All those years?”
“All those years.”
“I was a mess, Pak… I didn’t deserve him.”
“Aren’t we all a bit messy? It means we’re still human. It’s okay. He understood why you did what you did. It took time—but he understood. I hope you’ll understand yourself even more now. I’m rooting for you.”
Then he took me to Bram’s grave.
I lost my composure.
Now—every time I come home to South Jakarta—I try to visit him.
I read some of W.S. Rendra’s poems.
For him. For us.
Yesterday, I saw @hammersonicfest post that My Chemical Romance is coming in May 2026. And just like that—all of it came flooding back.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t slept.
The regret.
The ego.
The failures.
The pile of memories still waiting quietly in my old neighborhood.
The two pieces I wrote about him back in 2014.
The realization that maybe—I’ve already lost too many.
Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge—along with “Cemetery Drive” and “The Ghost of You”— They aren’t just songs, they’re memorials. For him. For us.
It was never about the band. Or the genre.
It was about the memories—etched into every note I played on repeat.
The kind of pain that lingers when you miss someone who’s been gone for years. The ache for forgiveness. The thirst for even a glimpse of salvation.
And I get it now—why so many people will go to that concert.
To make amends with themselves.
To validate the ghosts of their youth.
To scream it all out with the only band that understood.
I still haven’t decided if I’ll go.
But one thing’s for sure:
My Chemical Romance is one of the greatest, most powerful pop-punk/post-hardcore bands my generation has ever had. We might as well see them live, while we still can.
Ubud, 8th July 2025
“Cemetery Drive” – My Chemical Romance
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