During much of this morning’s dream I was worming my way through the hallways and staircases of a vast series of interlocking, cliff-mounted structures. Sometimes I was alone, and sometimes hordes of other people crowded into the structures’ rooms, making it hard for me to move around. I was trying to get from one disc golf tee-box to another, but these were spaced far apart from one another and the layout of the place was confusing, causing me to climb many stairs and squeeze down many tunnels built into and through the homes of the people living there. Each time I threw my discs, they sailed out of view. Although I knew were they had landed, I had a difficult time figuring out how to get there through the maze of interlocking buildings.
At one point, I was standing at the top of a staircase conferring with some of the people judging the event (or who were at least doing something officious). Turning around, I found the stairs behind me so impossibly packed with people that my only recourse for descending to the floor below was to jump out over the side of the railing and hand-carry myself on the outside edges of the individual steps to the floor below. As I reached the bottom my legs brushed against the stockinged feet of a lass resting with two other women on a couch. She immediately stripped her socks off whilst giving me evil looks, to which I responded (as I was walking out a nearby door) by mocking her concern for her striped and colorful socks, saying something like “My legs aren’t that dirty.”
Later in the dream sequences, I was in an alpine city built onto level ground that was covered with a few inches of slushy snow. Despite the presence of frozen precipitation I knew the city was on Bali, the Island of the Gods, somewhere high up the side of one of its towering volcanoes. The city was party ruined, many of its sparsely-placed high-rise buildings damaged or collapsed, but its streets were packed with cars, buses, and people attending to business. Twice whilst in the city I stepped up into a burnt-out single-family home in which stood a representation of my deceased father, an older man with grey hair but strong arms and big hands who embraced me in a great hug and asked why I was groaning in pain and weeping loudly. (After the second time meeting the older man I indeed lay awake in bed crying, hugging myself about the chest, and basking in the memory of those who have died before me.) Falling back asleep, I found myself sitting in the slushy snow talking to a bypassing woman wearing a tan overcoat, who had stopped to admonish me to seek a drier place to sit lest I catch the sniffles.
The thick wool socks I was wearing, though they like the rest of me sat in mounds of cold wet, were nonetheless bone dry, which to my dream-consciousness seemed slightly odd.
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
Showing posts with label bali. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bali. Show all posts
11 May 2018
05 January 2018
haiku 5 Jan 2018
Surf crashes nearby
A rooster crows, a dog barks
The sounds of Gods’ Island
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
A rooster crows, a dog barks
The sounds of Gods’ Island
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
04 August 2017
Balinese corn roaster
His name is Muhammad Ali, and he sells roasted corn on the cob. Few people ever think to ask him if he is familiar with his boxing American namesake; the topic rarely comes up.
From around lunchtime until well into the evening he tends his coconut-husk fire, baking corn and selling it to anyone with forty cents to spare. Sometimes, he sticks a ratty beach umbrella into a slot on the side of his pushcart so that customers don’t have to stand in the sun while they wait. He always stands in the sun, though. On his cart are tubs of regular as well as spicy cow’s butter with wood-handled paint brushes sticking out of them. People who desire their roasted corn to be spread with spicy butter say this: mintah panas.
During the Muslim holy month of ramadan, Muhammad Ali travels for a fortnight back to the island of Java, where his family lives, meaning that someone else sells corn in his stead. The other fifty weeks out of the year, however, he stands in the parking lot of Batu Bolong beach selling corn and chain-smoking cigarettes. It’s an honest gig, you see, and someone has to do it. In the Balinese language, one of the slang words for penis is kontol. Therefore, when a pretty white girl says she wants one corn, the joke is to ask her if she wants a big kontol, then jump the eyebrows and crank a secret smile when she says yes.
It’s a funny joke that never gets old.
Muhammad Ali is full of funny jokes.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
From around lunchtime until well into the evening he tends his coconut-husk fire, baking corn and selling it to anyone with forty cents to spare. Sometimes, he sticks a ratty beach umbrella into a slot on the side of his pushcart so that customers don’t have to stand in the sun while they wait. He always stands in the sun, though. On his cart are tubs of regular as well as spicy cow’s butter with wood-handled paint brushes sticking out of them. People who desire their roasted corn to be spread with spicy butter say this: mintah panas.
During the Muslim holy month of ramadan, Muhammad Ali travels for a fortnight back to the island of Java, where his family lives, meaning that someone else sells corn in his stead. The other fifty weeks out of the year, however, he stands in the parking lot of Batu Bolong beach selling corn and chain-smoking cigarettes. It’s an honest gig, you see, and someone has to do it. In the Balinese language, one of the slang words for penis is kontol. Therefore, when a pretty white girl says she wants one corn, the joke is to ask her if she wants a big kontol, then jump the eyebrows and crank a secret smile when she says yes.
It’s a funny joke that never gets old.
Muhammad Ali is full of funny jokes.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
14 June 2017
dreamstate writing 14 June 2017
The first dream I remember was a waking one in which my eyes were open and I was looking across the room toward the door. A face slid out from behind a patch of darkened wall and I greeted it out loud, saying, “Hello.” Something scared me - either the face greeting me back or a subsequent but forgotten part of the dream - and I awoke into full consciousness.
In the the second dream I was inside a long, rectangular room that was filled with diner booths or work cubicles. There were people sitting in most of the booths, and the room was loud with conversation. For some reason I kept walking from the front of the room down the corridors separating the booths to my own cubicle, which was in the back. At some point I met a dark-haired man of about my age, whom I allowed to sit at my booth. I went again to the front of the room and when I came back there was another man sitting at my booth also, a bald and aged fellow. I was concerned for the valuables stored inside my booth and became angry with the two men, telling them to leave my area. Upon waking up soon thereafter, I remembered my expressed desire to be kind to and accepting of the people visiting me in my dreams, and felt remorse for yelling at the two men.
The third dream I remember involved me looking into a mirror, adjusting my hair. (This is unusual, since I rarely look at myself in the mirror while awake.) I was in a poorly-lit bathroom wetting my forelock when I noticed a crescent-shaped tattoo that ran across my forehead from one temple to the next. The tattoo was an image (such as the one seen here) of a sunset viewed from behind the little or seaside shrine, Pura Luhur Enjung, located in Canggu, Bali, Indonesia. Above my right eye were the curved tops of the shrine’s holiest of holies, above my left eye was a sun setting over the waves of Old Man’s surf break.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
In the the second dream I was inside a long, rectangular room that was filled with diner booths or work cubicles. There were people sitting in most of the booths, and the room was loud with conversation. For some reason I kept walking from the front of the room down the corridors separating the booths to my own cubicle, which was in the back. At some point I met a dark-haired man of about my age, whom I allowed to sit at my booth. I went again to the front of the room and when I came back there was another man sitting at my booth also, a bald and aged fellow. I was concerned for the valuables stored inside my booth and became angry with the two men, telling them to leave my area. Upon waking up soon thereafter, I remembered my expressed desire to be kind to and accepting of the people visiting me in my dreams, and felt remorse for yelling at the two men.
The third dream I remember involved me looking into a mirror, adjusting my hair. (This is unusual, since I rarely look at myself in the mirror while awake.) I was in a poorly-lit bathroom wetting my forelock when I noticed a crescent-shaped tattoo that ran across my forehead from one temple to the next. The tattoo was an image (such as the one seen here) of a sunset viewed from behind the little or seaside shrine, Pura Luhur Enjung, located in Canggu, Bali, Indonesia. Above my right eye were the curved tops of the shrine’s holiest of holies, above my left eye was a sun setting over the waves of Old Man’s surf break.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
10 March 2017
my inner thighs
The old Muslim man at the end of our street liked to massage my inner thighs. He owned a warung, a combination of general store and roadside eatery, that served Halal foods and traditional beverages such as sweet iced tea and hot orange juice. A few blocks away sat the Canggu Permai local mosque, and on Sundays his restaurant would be filled with pious eaters still decked out in their sarongs and cylindrical black hats.
On a Thursday, I walked to the corner from my small efficiency apartment down the gang, saying hello to him on my way past. I got a take-away portion of rice, tofu, and vegetables and was headed back out when he padded the seat next to him, smiling invitingly. Uncomfortable with his physical intimacy, I had been avoiding him for many weeks, always claiming to be busy, but that day I decided to humor him. The left side of his body had been lamed by stroke, but his right arm was strong, the fingernails on that hand long, and sharp.
As soon as I sat down he leaned over and got to work. “No good, no good,” he said as he was digging his nails into the varicose veins that run up the inside of my right thigh. “You must come to me for massage, more often.” Wincing from the pain caused by his sharp nails digging into the tender flesh of my inner thighs, I looked up and made eye-contact with a group of Javanese construction workers building a house across the street. All four of them had ceased their labors to stare at the uncommon sight of a tall, blond, Ynki surfer getting his sensitives rubbed by an elderly, partially paralyzed, Balinese-Muslim restaurateur. A couple of hijab-clad young ladies perched atop a motorized scooter rode past, their eyebrows rising in apparent wonderment. The absurdity of the situation overwhelmed me; I started laughing. Such was my outpouring joy that Bapak Resto was soon laughing with me, our deep belly laughs shaking the makeshift bamboo bench upon which we sat.
Within moments, the old man’s son came running out, wide-eyed with terror. Apparently, he thought his father was having another stroke. At that, I took my leave, shaking hands with and bowing deeply toward my ailing masseuse, whom I visited at least once a week, thereafter.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
On a Thursday, I walked to the corner from my small efficiency apartment down the gang, saying hello to him on my way past. I got a take-away portion of rice, tofu, and vegetables and was headed back out when he padded the seat next to him, smiling invitingly. Uncomfortable with his physical intimacy, I had been avoiding him for many weeks, always claiming to be busy, but that day I decided to humor him. The left side of his body had been lamed by stroke, but his right arm was strong, the fingernails on that hand long, and sharp.
As soon as I sat down he leaned over and got to work. “No good, no good,” he said as he was digging his nails into the varicose veins that run up the inside of my right thigh. “You must come to me for massage, more often.” Wincing from the pain caused by his sharp nails digging into the tender flesh of my inner thighs, I looked up and made eye-contact with a group of Javanese construction workers building a house across the street. All four of them had ceased their labors to stare at the uncommon sight of a tall, blond, Ynki surfer getting his sensitives rubbed by an elderly, partially paralyzed, Balinese-Muslim restaurateur. A couple of hijab-clad young ladies perched atop a motorized scooter rode past, their eyebrows rising in apparent wonderment. The absurdity of the situation overwhelmed me; I started laughing. Such was my outpouring joy that Bapak Resto was soon laughing with me, our deep belly laughs shaking the makeshift bamboo bench upon which we sat.
Within moments, the old man’s son came running out, wide-eyed with terror. Apparently, he thought his father was having another stroke. At that, I took my leave, shaking hands with and bowing deeply toward my ailing masseuse, whom I visited at least once a week, thereafter.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
11 March 2016
or jungle beyond
(dream-state writing March 2016)
I spend Balinese New Year's Day, or Nyepi, house-sitting my friend's villa in Umalas, north Kuta. During the day of silence I do yoga, meditate, play video games, contemplate my place in the universe, and star-gaze. The next morning, after having scaled the wall into his own compound, he wakes me up by banging on the downstairs room's door, whereupon I stumble out of bed mumbling apologies in Indonesian. Mightily groggy and feeling a strong tug to keep dreaming, I decline his invitation to have a morning surf, pack my few belongings, and head back to Canggu Permai. As the morning is hot, I turn on the air-conditioning, wait for the room to cool down a bit, then crawl under my light blanket, tossing and turning a few times before I fall back asleep. My ensuing dreams are recorded here, to the best of memory.
A convoy of vehicles and pedestrians is making its way along an elevated roadway that runs through both unkempt plots and well-maintained rice paddies. I am pushing a bicycle piled high with goods of some sort, but realize that I forgot my flip-flops on the road behind me, let my bicycle drive itself, and sprint-hover (a form of locomotion I often experience in my dreams, a type of bouncing that allows me to cover large distances quickly) back along the left-hand side of the road. My feet do not sting or hurt as I hurry along although the road is made of pitted and crumbling paving stones. As I am passing a number of shiny cars (whose drivers are staring straight ahead and not making eye-contact with me), a part of my conscious mind wonders why the convoy is still moving even though I had just abandoned my bike. As soon as I slip into my thongs, the dream changes. I have a vague memory of bartering for a coconut, which I drink, leaving the spoon that came with it on the edge of the now-deserted causeway, whereupon I remember a few elements of bartering for the coconut from a woman standing amidst heaps of rubble and broken houses by the side of the cobble-stone road. Still carrying the coconut, I reach a break in the elevated roadway, which has for some time been running alongside deep, stone pits filled with crystal-clear water. Leaning over the barrier installed above the break, I look down to find a pagoda (wooden pillars, roof of fired red tiles with adorned ridges) floating in the water, which is blocking mounds of water-borne trash from entering a lake on my right. Ahead of the break is no elevated roadway insight, only an open field of dry earth with a darkened wood, or jungle, beyond. I hurl my coconut down onto a slab of broken concrete, but instead of breaking it bounces out of sight. Moving carefully through the rubble, I make my way down the right side of the elevated roadway and step onto the pagoda, which tilts and begins to sink under my weight, whereupon some loose bits of plastic and other trash wash over my feet. I look down into the clear water and see great seams in the sunken rocks, as if it had been built by man. As I step off of the pagoda onto dry land, the dream changes again.
Next, I'm in a courtyard paved with gray stones. It has buildings on three sides of it and a wrought-iron, sliding gateway to my right. I'm facing a row of planting boxes in which are growing bushes and small trees. In front of me is a basin filled with water. In my hand is a piece of an engine which I am taking apart with a knife. I am using a short-bladed knife to cut away at the piece, which suddenly resembles a carburetor made entirely of rubber, and when I have sliced it in two, a reptile pokes its head of out the piece in my left hand. Standing up, I dump the piece in the basin of water, which I can see is about 2 meters deep, nearly 1 meter square, and lined with white, porcelain tiles. Bending over to look into the basin I see a large frog (possibly female) whose limbs are strong and human-shaped, dressed in a brightly-colored kimono decorated with the image of an Asiatic woman holding a parasol. The frog is also wearing a traditional Chinese scholar's hat, complete with red tassel; it turns to look at me, then kicks its legs and swims deeper into the basin, allowing me a full glimpse of the colorful image imprinted on the kimono. There are 5 or 6 other frogs in the basin as well as some swirling debris. The frogs are all past the tadpole stage but their rear legs are of different sizes. All have long flaps of skin that connect front to hind legs, in the manner of butterfly wings. I reach into the basin and pull out a bit of debris, a length of furry vegetation that I throw into the yard behind me. Excited at the sight of the kimono, I exit the yard through the gate and call to my neighbor, a blond woman, to come see, but she for some reason cannot get past the gate – her long dress keeps getting stuck on a hook of some sorts on the other side of the gate. The dream changes.
The next thing I remember is sitting in the lobby of what looks like a hospital. There's a counter to my left, a door behind me, a door to my left, a door in front of me, and another, larger door to my right. Through the large door on the right I can see sunlight as well as people and cars coming and going. Across from me are two rows of chairs with three seats each set up so they are facing each other. Five or six people are sitting there, but I can only make out a man sitting cross-legged on a seat closest to me, on the right-hand row. I'm on the phone with some sort of customer service representative, a woman, who asks for my new phone number, whereupon I start trying to find it while yelling into the phone's mouthpiece for her to be patient. At that point, the cross-legged man starts yelling louder and louder until I become annoyed enough to hang up my phone and confront him. I am not aware of walking across to him, only that I'm suddenly standing over him. The five other people seated there with him are only dimly visible. He looks away from me, down to the right, and I realize that he's yelling pure gibberish, non-sense sounds, whilst flapping his jaw in an exaggerated fashion that mimics talking. Taken aback at his offensive behavior, I lean away, whereupon he looks back up at me. His torso and legs are blurry but I can see his face and arms more clearly. He has reddish hair with a somewhat bloated and freckled face that looks a bit like my own, and his right arm is tattooed almost entirely with elaborate tribal designs, though his left arm has but few tattoos. At that point, I wake up, feeling refreshed.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
I spend Balinese New Year's Day, or Nyepi, house-sitting my friend's villa in Umalas, north Kuta. During the day of silence I do yoga, meditate, play video games, contemplate my place in the universe, and star-gaze. The next morning, after having scaled the wall into his own compound, he wakes me up by banging on the downstairs room's door, whereupon I stumble out of bed mumbling apologies in Indonesian. Mightily groggy and feeling a strong tug to keep dreaming, I decline his invitation to have a morning surf, pack my few belongings, and head back to Canggu Permai. As the morning is hot, I turn on the air-conditioning, wait for the room to cool down a bit, then crawl under my light blanket, tossing and turning a few times before I fall back asleep. My ensuing dreams are recorded here, to the best of memory.
A convoy of vehicles and pedestrians is making its way along an elevated roadway that runs through both unkempt plots and well-maintained rice paddies. I am pushing a bicycle piled high with goods of some sort, but realize that I forgot my flip-flops on the road behind me, let my bicycle drive itself, and sprint-hover (a form of locomotion I often experience in my dreams, a type of bouncing that allows me to cover large distances quickly) back along the left-hand side of the road. My feet do not sting or hurt as I hurry along although the road is made of pitted and crumbling paving stones. As I am passing a number of shiny cars (whose drivers are staring straight ahead and not making eye-contact with me), a part of my conscious mind wonders why the convoy is still moving even though I had just abandoned my bike. As soon as I slip into my thongs, the dream changes. I have a vague memory of bartering for a coconut, which I drink, leaving the spoon that came with it on the edge of the now-deserted causeway, whereupon I remember a few elements of bartering for the coconut from a woman standing amidst heaps of rubble and broken houses by the side of the cobble-stone road. Still carrying the coconut, I reach a break in the elevated roadway, which has for some time been running alongside deep, stone pits filled with crystal-clear water. Leaning over the barrier installed above the break, I look down to find a pagoda (wooden pillars, roof of fired red tiles with adorned ridges) floating in the water, which is blocking mounds of water-borne trash from entering a lake on my right. Ahead of the break is no elevated roadway insight, only an open field of dry earth with a darkened wood, or jungle, beyond. I hurl my coconut down onto a slab of broken concrete, but instead of breaking it bounces out of sight. Moving carefully through the rubble, I make my way down the right side of the elevated roadway and step onto the pagoda, which tilts and begins to sink under my weight, whereupon some loose bits of plastic and other trash wash over my feet. I look down into the clear water and see great seams in the sunken rocks, as if it had been built by man. As I step off of the pagoda onto dry land, the dream changes again.
Next, I'm in a courtyard paved with gray stones. It has buildings on three sides of it and a wrought-iron, sliding gateway to my right. I'm facing a row of planting boxes in which are growing bushes and small trees. In front of me is a basin filled with water. In my hand is a piece of an engine which I am taking apart with a knife. I am using a short-bladed knife to cut away at the piece, which suddenly resembles a carburetor made entirely of rubber, and when I have sliced it in two, a reptile pokes its head of out the piece in my left hand. Standing up, I dump the piece in the basin of water, which I can see is about 2 meters deep, nearly 1 meter square, and lined with white, porcelain tiles. Bending over to look into the basin I see a large frog (possibly female) whose limbs are strong and human-shaped, dressed in a brightly-colored kimono decorated with the image of an Asiatic woman holding a parasol. The frog is also wearing a traditional Chinese scholar's hat, complete with red tassel; it turns to look at me, then kicks its legs and swims deeper into the basin, allowing me a full glimpse of the colorful image imprinted on the kimono. There are 5 or 6 other frogs in the basin as well as some swirling debris. The frogs are all past the tadpole stage but their rear legs are of different sizes. All have long flaps of skin that connect front to hind legs, in the manner of butterfly wings. I reach into the basin and pull out a bit of debris, a length of furry vegetation that I throw into the yard behind me. Excited at the sight of the kimono, I exit the yard through the gate and call to my neighbor, a blond woman, to come see, but she for some reason cannot get past the gate – her long dress keeps getting stuck on a hook of some sorts on the other side of the gate. The dream changes.
The next thing I remember is sitting in the lobby of what looks like a hospital. There's a counter to my left, a door behind me, a door to my left, a door in front of me, and another, larger door to my right. Through the large door on the right I can see sunlight as well as people and cars coming and going. Across from me are two rows of chairs with three seats each set up so they are facing each other. Five or six people are sitting there, but I can only make out a man sitting cross-legged on a seat closest to me, on the right-hand row. I'm on the phone with some sort of customer service representative, a woman, who asks for my new phone number, whereupon I start trying to find it while yelling into the phone's mouthpiece for her to be patient. At that point, the cross-legged man starts yelling louder and louder until I become annoyed enough to hang up my phone and confront him. I am not aware of walking across to him, only that I'm suddenly standing over him. The five other people seated there with him are only dimly visible. He looks away from me, down to the right, and I realize that he's yelling pure gibberish, non-sense sounds, whilst flapping his jaw in an exaggerated fashion that mimics talking. Taken aback at his offensive behavior, I lean away, whereupon he looks back up at me. His torso and legs are blurry but I can see his face and arms more clearly. He has reddish hair with a somewhat bloated and freckled face that looks a bit like my own, and his right arm is tattooed almost entirely with elaborate tribal designs, though his left arm has but few tattoos. At that point, I wake up, feeling refreshed.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
18 February 2016
behind the central
My alarm in the waking world sounds at 7 a.m., but a part of me really wants to go back to sleep. I can sense a chasm of promise awaiting me back in Morpheus's grasp, a pit of pregnant nothingness that must be explored. After getting up to shut off the alarm I go back to bed, roll over onto my side, and slip immediately into dreaming. Twice more I wake up, each time the pull of the chasm, the nothingness, less strong but still present. When I finally awake feeling rested, memories of my dreams linger. They are recorded here.
I'm on a bus that has no roof driving through a brightly sunny landscape, sitting toward the rear, just behind the central doors. It's unclear to me where we're going but I recognize features outside and feel the journey has purpose. A few other persons (4, excluding the driver) are on the bus, also, all toward the front, all with their backs turned toward me, although I can tell they are aware of my presence. The bus slows to a halt in the middle of some featureless scrub and 2 more persons clamber aboard. They sit next to and slightly behind me. I turn to look at them. They are talking to each other and both are in military uniforms of sort. Neither of their uniforms bear insignia. Further from me is a woman with curly blond hair and an attractive but acne-scarred face wearing a light blue shirt, dark blue long pants, and a black belt. Closer to me is man in what could be Marine Corps blues. He has closely-cropped dark hair and his seemingly crippled hands are raised in front of his chest, fingers curled and spread wide. His eye-sockets are scarred and sunken pits devoid of eyeballs. He asks me what branch of the service I'm in, and I tell him something akin to 'I've never served.' The two talk to each other for a while and when I look back, the woman is sitting a row further back, low in the seat with her crotch thrust forward. I imagine briefly if I have a chance to make sex to her but the notion evaporates immediately.
The bus accelerates. We're driving down a snow-covered dirt track through a wintry scrub landscape at high speed and I remark at the driver's skill in negotiating the narrow and hilly path. I can see fresh tire-marks in the snows that cover the road. We pass a road-marker for the 'York Historical Society,' a bronze plaque atop an iron post that features a picture of an old barn or covered bridge. I'm speaking with the service-members about where I come from, explaining to them that I was in a sad place for a long time, much like the town the bus is driving into. The road is lined with boarded-up houses, burned-out cars, and weedy lawns. Because of an obstruction up ahead, the bus driver stops, reveres, and is doing a 3-point-turn when he runs us into one of the houses, cracking its barn-like sliding door. At that point I awake, refreshed.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
I'm on a bus that has no roof driving through a brightly sunny landscape, sitting toward the rear, just behind the central doors. It's unclear to me where we're going but I recognize features outside and feel the journey has purpose. A few other persons (4, excluding the driver) are on the bus, also, all toward the front, all with their backs turned toward me, although I can tell they are aware of my presence. The bus slows to a halt in the middle of some featureless scrub and 2 more persons clamber aboard. They sit next to and slightly behind me. I turn to look at them. They are talking to each other and both are in military uniforms of sort. Neither of their uniforms bear insignia. Further from me is a woman with curly blond hair and an attractive but acne-scarred face wearing a light blue shirt, dark blue long pants, and a black belt. Closer to me is man in what could be Marine Corps blues. He has closely-cropped dark hair and his seemingly crippled hands are raised in front of his chest, fingers curled and spread wide. His eye-sockets are scarred and sunken pits devoid of eyeballs. He asks me what branch of the service I'm in, and I tell him something akin to 'I've never served.' The two talk to each other for a while and when I look back, the woman is sitting a row further back, low in the seat with her crotch thrust forward. I imagine briefly if I have a chance to make sex to her but the notion evaporates immediately.
The bus accelerates. We're driving down a snow-covered dirt track through a wintry scrub landscape at high speed and I remark at the driver's skill in negotiating the narrow and hilly path. I can see fresh tire-marks in the snows that cover the road. We pass a road-marker for the 'York Historical Society,' a bronze plaque atop an iron post that features a picture of an old barn or covered bridge. I'm speaking with the service-members about where I come from, explaining to them that I was in a sad place for a long time, much like the town the bus is driving into. The road is lined with boarded-up houses, burned-out cars, and weedy lawns. Because of an obstruction up ahead, the bus driver stops, reveres, and is doing a 3-point-turn when he runs us into one of the houses, cracking its barn-like sliding door. At that point I awake, refreshed.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
01 February 2016
on surfing's anarchism
At its root, anarchism is the absence of rulers, not rules. If everyone were to abide by the agreed-upon codes of conduct, everyone would be able to live in happiness, liberty, and peace. This is especially relevant out in the churning swells; surfing is essentially an anarchistic activity. There are no police, no time keepers, and no crossing guards, wherefore it is necessary for everyone trying to catch waves to act honorably and with due consideration for all the other people risking their fragile health and spending their precious time trying to float across the face of a piling heap of water.
Some people are better surfers than others, and therefore believe they are for some reason entitled to a greater share of waves. This is a spurious notion. Since they can better read the waves and keep themselves in the correct position for riding them, they tend to charge on every arriving peak, regardless of how many waves they've already ridden and how long every other salty soul has been waiting. Plus, they tend to drag themselves past the other people inching toward the peak and put themselves at the front (this is called snaking) instead of displaying a modicum of self-respect and putting themselves at the back, there to wait their turn. Without honor, without patience, without generosity, the act of surfing degenerates into an ego-boosting pissing contest that frequently ends in vocal or physical violence, externalized aggression, and general sadness (for everyone but the snake). Outside of an official competition, there is no justification for stealing others' sea-time by jumping to the front of a line of surfers, every time. Just as today's consumption-oriented capitalistic system encourages the individual to grab as much shit as he can without regard for and often at the expense of the rights and desires of the people around him, consumption-oriented surfing – that is, paddling out just to shred as many waves as possible in the shortest amount of time without giving a floating fuck about the others guys out there too – taints the majesty of the shared experience called surfing, reducing it to something akin to masturbating in public.
There are few conditions as pitiable as greed, few traits as undesirable as blind self service. Without a healthy respect for community and the notion that we're all in this together and none of us is getting out of here alive, a person tends to get wrapped up in what is going on inside his head-space, believe what his ego is telling him, and lose his connection to the less tangible things in life – honor, giving, sharing, and joy. The sea is always a dangerous place, rain or shine, and a person knocked unconscious has but a few score seconds to live. Here, in Bali, there are not many lifeguards; a surfer must rely on the other people bobbing in the brine to save his ass if things turn south. Hence, it helps to make and keep as many friends as possible out there, to display poise and self restraint, and to conduct oneself in a manner respectful of everyone else's time and right to exist. For many people, happiness means the absence of suffering; if everyone were to follow a few simple surfing rules (wait your turn, keep hold of your board, don't snake, don't paddle into a breaking face if others are trying to jump on it), the beautiful justice of anarchy could truly work, at least out at sea, everyone going home having happily ridden a few. In one model of the Universe, the person who gives the most receives the most; give way, give thanks, and receive the ultimate gift – love.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
12 December 2015
just before dark
We leave our rented house in southwest Banyuwangi prefecture, East Java, just before dark. Our mount is a Kijang sports utility vehicle borrowed from a local Hindu man, big for the skinny roads. Fast. Nimble. Gold-embroidered sergeant's chevrons hang from the rear-view mirror. The car's radio doesn't work, but its suspension system is solid enough to propel us in relative comfort over the ruts and pits of the poorly maintained roads. To stay awake after a long few days of competitive surfing, Bob and I chain-smoke cigarettes and chat, leisurely, sweating in the evening heat. With a six hour round-trip drive ahead of us, not counting the time we'll spend at temple, our talk meanders from one topic to the next as he guns our ride past pushcart-vendors and men riding motorcycles with large bags of cut grass balanced on their heads. “Don't worry, bro, I'm not going to kill you,” Bob says when he sees how tense I am after a few narrowly-avoided collisions with other vehicles driving just as recklessly as we are. I adjust the belt securing to my waist a ceremonial kamben, or men's Balinese sarong, and light smokes for both of us.
Half-way there, we run over a cat, its pelt white with black splotches. From the driver's side darkness it leaps suddenly, directly in front of us, straight under our wheels. We pull over to check the undercarriage for signs of blood or fur. Nothing. Lights go on in a couple of the houses that line the road. We ask a resident if he knows to whom the cat belongs, but the man claims not to know of any cat, goes back inside, and turns off his porch-light. In the night sky above us, a full moon shines radiantly. We spend a few more minutes peering into the sparse and roadside bushes, but neither hear nor see anything. The faint aroma of fresh cat-shit hits me as we are getting back into the car, however, and I suspect that our journey to the temple of Kali, the goddess of destruction and renewal, on her birthday, under a full moon, required a death sacrifice of some sort. The Universe, as always, provides.
A few kilometers before we enter the national park within which Kali's temple sits we pass some dragon-fruit plantations, neat rows of small trees strung with lights, one suspended above each tree, eerie grids of brightness that stand out along the otherwise unlit road. The path that leads to the entrance of the national park is worse than all others before it, potholes a half-meter deep, thick paving stones that kick up and bang against the car's undercarriage. A cluster of eyes flash red in the darkness ahead, a herd of deer that quickly moves into the brush as we approach. “Where there are kijang, or deer, there are big cats that hunt them,” Bob says, “so while we're at temple keep an eye on the trees above.”
Once we've payed our entrance fee (around $1.50 each) and have parked in an otherwise empty lot near the temple grounds, a monk's attendant comes sleepily out of his quarters and approaches us, to see what we're after. I make the mistake of placing the plastic bag containing our temple offerings on the ground in order to shake his hand and bow to him properly, whereupon Bob goes into the concession stand to buy offerings, or upakara, untainted by Western ignorance. Somewhere nearby, a large diesel generator pumps out electricity; the temple sits at least 8 kilometers from the nearest settlement. After a quick wash of foot and hand in a nearby row of water basins, we meet the monk, or mangku, who agrees to be our psychopomp, and lead us in ceremony. The attendant, older than the mangku and nearly deaf, lights a kerosene lantern and walks us over to the outer temple while the mangku rides over on a motorbike so that he can open the door and have a look around. Faces peer out from the red-brick outer temple's swirling facades, and I pause, briefly, to feel if I am allowed to pass the stone threshold guardians, or raksasa; since my heart is pure and my body washed, I sense I am welcome, and follow the others up the steep stairs. In the outer temple's courtyard, which can easily seat 300 people, Bob speaks with the mangku in Indonesian, talking about family and religion, desires and wants, concerns and delights. I understand perhaps a third of it. Upon the monk's chest is a round, golden pin displaying a swastika, and while standing across from him and listening to them talk, I imagine that swastika – a more than 10,000 year-old symbol that brings good luck and repels bad – shining at my third chakra, the diaphragm. I settle down into a butterfly seating position and am soon overwhelmed with emotion. Memories of my dearly departed fill mind- and heart-space. First, visions of mother and father, then more, countless ancestors bubbling up through eons of genetic transmission, and I weep, quietly, there upon the uneven paving stones of an East Javanese Hindu temple. Once various things have been fetched from different parts of the temple and the accouterments of worship are prepared, incense has been lit, and Bob and I have arranged our upakara on the sandstone before us, the monk begins the first ceremony, his bell ringing into the still, dark night, his voice uttering Sanskrit mantras foreign to my ear but on some level comforting, protective. I keep crying as Bob coaches me through purifying my hands in the rising incense smoke and choosing the correct flowers from the upakara at the correct times, which we wedge above our ears once we've held them between the fingertips of hands pressed together in prayer. The attendant sprinkles first our heads with holy water and then our outstretched, cupped hands. We sip it four times, but on the fifth sprinkling the deaf man stops me from sipping, incorrectly, a fifth time. I follow Bob's lead and wash my face and neck with the water, instead. Then, we take grains of broken rice from a proffered woven basket and dab them to forehead and throat. Soon after, the mangku's bell stops ringing, and we rise. As the mangku puts all his tools away, Bob and I stuff donations into a box near the exit. The tears dry upon my cheeks, and the swastika in my chest has begun to spin, its colors turning from gold to black, gold to black.
Once again, the mangku drives off into the darkness. Once more, the attendant lights his lamp, and we follow him through the darkness toward, I assume, Kali's own inner sanctum. Above us, the brilliant moon winks and dances through gaps in the treetops. Somewhere in the forest, a bird starts up its song, then stops. The night air is pregnant with energy. Curiously still. And then it's into the main temple, this one far smaller than the first, room for maybe 20 people to sit. A massive banyan tree, or strangler-fig, grows from one corner, its black and white checkered sarong stained and frayed. The monk walks to a dark, irregular stone topped by a wooden framework supporting a golden curtain, which he draws back, revealing a row of smaller dark stones arranged atop the larger one. (During the drive, my companion had explained that the temple is one of the holiest shrines in all of Indonesian Hinduism, the stones the holiest of holy relics.) With upakara before us and incense lit, Bob and I sit down just behind our psychopomp. He launches into chanting and bell ringing a bit too fast for Bob's liking, who interrupts his labor to ask him to slow down. I settle into meditation and feel for the swastika, which is now spinning so rapidly it's almost torquing my torso physically. A few minutes into the ceremony, Bob, to my right, stars groaning and cackling. I slit my eyes and see him bent over at the waist, frothing at the mouth and speaking with a voice I've never heard him use before, a voice as old and dauntless as time itself. The beast-like grunts escaping him cause the hairs on my neck and arms to stand up as I shut my eyes and settle back into Self. I sense an profound agony in him and resist the desire to reach out blindly and pat his back in reassurance. Such are the whipping beams of null-energy lashing out of his fourth or heart chakra that all I can do is sit up straighter, bask in their tearing escape, and taste of their hue, onyx-black bands with brilliant white edges. The beams seem to be simply passing through the mangku, who in my mind's eye is but a fog of focused obeisance suspended in prayer. Bob's agony increases and I let a deep love for him well up in my heart of hearts. I'm shaking from the energy coursing out of him and into the swastika at my diaphragm, which is now completely black and seems to be exponentially growing in size. I summon up every ounce of loving compassion I can muster and feed that love into him, closing the circuit with whatever channel, whatever force or god, he opened, whereupon he stands up, shuffles over to the irregular rock, and falls to his knees before it, weeping and groaning anew. As the energies escaping him diminish, my swastika shrinks in size but not in strength. I feel it sear and settle into my soul's matrix, jet-black and brimming with power. The mangku enters the 'Om' phase of prayer, signaling its imminent end. Next to me, Bob starts breathing normally again, and the ceremony ends. As the mangku is gathering up his rite-making implements and chatting with Bob about the state of life and religion in Bali, I notice a change in the attendant, who turns on a hand-held torch with which to illuminates the treetops above us. I remember the warning about big cats but, for some reason, am not in the least concerned. After a haphazard scan of the canopy above, he switches the light back off and goes outside to lead us back to our car.
As we are driving back down the pitted track, I connect with something, or someone, out in the inky-black woods, that I cannot even see with my physical eyes, and the intensity of our exchange makes me smile. “What happened back there?” Bob asks after reminding me not to throw cigarette butts out of the window until after we've left the park. (I've been collecting all my butts in a small plastic bag the entire time and thrown exactly zero butts out of the window.) “I don't remember anything,” he says, “after we sat down in front of the stones.” I explain everything I felt and heard and saw and did, and he admonishes me for reaching into him the way I did, for completing the circuit, as, he explains, a part of my energies now live inside him, which could lead him to become sick, or die. I apologize to him, thank him for taking me along, and light up a few more cigarettes. The bright moon overhead gives us a dim sense of the road ahead, but we're no longer in a hurry, cruising along and enjoying the cool night air. The seed of something vast and immutable pulses inside me, its contours bent, black, old as mankind itself. I place a hand on top of my belly, smile, and silently thank goddess Kali for a strange and wonderful night.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
Half-way there, we run over a cat, its pelt white with black splotches. From the driver's side darkness it leaps suddenly, directly in front of us, straight under our wheels. We pull over to check the undercarriage for signs of blood or fur. Nothing. Lights go on in a couple of the houses that line the road. We ask a resident if he knows to whom the cat belongs, but the man claims not to know of any cat, goes back inside, and turns off his porch-light. In the night sky above us, a full moon shines radiantly. We spend a few more minutes peering into the sparse and roadside bushes, but neither hear nor see anything. The faint aroma of fresh cat-shit hits me as we are getting back into the car, however, and I suspect that our journey to the temple of Kali, the goddess of destruction and renewal, on her birthday, under a full moon, required a death sacrifice of some sort. The Universe, as always, provides.
A few kilometers before we enter the national park within which Kali's temple sits we pass some dragon-fruit plantations, neat rows of small trees strung with lights, one suspended above each tree, eerie grids of brightness that stand out along the otherwise unlit road. The path that leads to the entrance of the national park is worse than all others before it, potholes a half-meter deep, thick paving stones that kick up and bang against the car's undercarriage. A cluster of eyes flash red in the darkness ahead, a herd of deer that quickly moves into the brush as we approach. “Where there are kijang, or deer, there are big cats that hunt them,” Bob says, “so while we're at temple keep an eye on the trees above.”
Once we've payed our entrance fee (around $1.50 each) and have parked in an otherwise empty lot near the temple grounds, a monk's attendant comes sleepily out of his quarters and approaches us, to see what we're after. I make the mistake of placing the plastic bag containing our temple offerings on the ground in order to shake his hand and bow to him properly, whereupon Bob goes into the concession stand to buy offerings, or upakara, untainted by Western ignorance. Somewhere nearby, a large diesel generator pumps out electricity; the temple sits at least 8 kilometers from the nearest settlement. After a quick wash of foot and hand in a nearby row of water basins, we meet the monk, or mangku, who agrees to be our psychopomp, and lead us in ceremony. The attendant, older than the mangku and nearly deaf, lights a kerosene lantern and walks us over to the outer temple while the mangku rides over on a motorbike so that he can open the door and have a look around. Faces peer out from the red-brick outer temple's swirling facades, and I pause, briefly, to feel if I am allowed to pass the stone threshold guardians, or raksasa; since my heart is pure and my body washed, I sense I am welcome, and follow the others up the steep stairs. In the outer temple's courtyard, which can easily seat 300 people, Bob speaks with the mangku in Indonesian, talking about family and religion, desires and wants, concerns and delights. I understand perhaps a third of it. Upon the monk's chest is a round, golden pin displaying a swastika, and while standing across from him and listening to them talk, I imagine that swastika – a more than 10,000 year-old symbol that brings good luck and repels bad – shining at my third chakra, the diaphragm. I settle down into a butterfly seating position and am soon overwhelmed with emotion. Memories of my dearly departed fill mind- and heart-space. First, visions of mother and father, then more, countless ancestors bubbling up through eons of genetic transmission, and I weep, quietly, there upon the uneven paving stones of an East Javanese Hindu temple. Once various things have been fetched from different parts of the temple and the accouterments of worship are prepared, incense has been lit, and Bob and I have arranged our upakara on the sandstone before us, the monk begins the first ceremony, his bell ringing into the still, dark night, his voice uttering Sanskrit mantras foreign to my ear but on some level comforting, protective. I keep crying as Bob coaches me through purifying my hands in the rising incense smoke and choosing the correct flowers from the upakara at the correct times, which we wedge above our ears once we've held them between the fingertips of hands pressed together in prayer. The attendant sprinkles first our heads with holy water and then our outstretched, cupped hands. We sip it four times, but on the fifth sprinkling the deaf man stops me from sipping, incorrectly, a fifth time. I follow Bob's lead and wash my face and neck with the water, instead. Then, we take grains of broken rice from a proffered woven basket and dab them to forehead and throat. Soon after, the mangku's bell stops ringing, and we rise. As the mangku puts all his tools away, Bob and I stuff donations into a box near the exit. The tears dry upon my cheeks, and the swastika in my chest has begun to spin, its colors turning from gold to black, gold to black.
Once again, the mangku drives off into the darkness. Once more, the attendant lights his lamp, and we follow him through the darkness toward, I assume, Kali's own inner sanctum. Above us, the brilliant moon winks and dances through gaps in the treetops. Somewhere in the forest, a bird starts up its song, then stops. The night air is pregnant with energy. Curiously still. And then it's into the main temple, this one far smaller than the first, room for maybe 20 people to sit. A massive banyan tree, or strangler-fig, grows from one corner, its black and white checkered sarong stained and frayed. The monk walks to a dark, irregular stone topped by a wooden framework supporting a golden curtain, which he draws back, revealing a row of smaller dark stones arranged atop the larger one. (During the drive, my companion had explained that the temple is one of the holiest shrines in all of Indonesian Hinduism, the stones the holiest of holy relics.) With upakara before us and incense lit, Bob and I sit down just behind our psychopomp. He launches into chanting and bell ringing a bit too fast for Bob's liking, who interrupts his labor to ask him to slow down. I settle into meditation and feel for the swastika, which is now spinning so rapidly it's almost torquing my torso physically. A few minutes into the ceremony, Bob, to my right, stars groaning and cackling. I slit my eyes and see him bent over at the waist, frothing at the mouth and speaking with a voice I've never heard him use before, a voice as old and dauntless as time itself. The beast-like grunts escaping him cause the hairs on my neck and arms to stand up as I shut my eyes and settle back into Self. I sense an profound agony in him and resist the desire to reach out blindly and pat his back in reassurance. Such are the whipping beams of null-energy lashing out of his fourth or heart chakra that all I can do is sit up straighter, bask in their tearing escape, and taste of their hue, onyx-black bands with brilliant white edges. The beams seem to be simply passing through the mangku, who in my mind's eye is but a fog of focused obeisance suspended in prayer. Bob's agony increases and I let a deep love for him well up in my heart of hearts. I'm shaking from the energy coursing out of him and into the swastika at my diaphragm, which is now completely black and seems to be exponentially growing in size. I summon up every ounce of loving compassion I can muster and feed that love into him, closing the circuit with whatever channel, whatever force or god, he opened, whereupon he stands up, shuffles over to the irregular rock, and falls to his knees before it, weeping and groaning anew. As the energies escaping him diminish, my swastika shrinks in size but not in strength. I feel it sear and settle into my soul's matrix, jet-black and brimming with power. The mangku enters the 'Om' phase of prayer, signaling its imminent end. Next to me, Bob starts breathing normally again, and the ceremony ends. As the mangku is gathering up his rite-making implements and chatting with Bob about the state of life and religion in Bali, I notice a change in the attendant, who turns on a hand-held torch with which to illuminates the treetops above us. I remember the warning about big cats but, for some reason, am not in the least concerned. After a haphazard scan of the canopy above, he switches the light back off and goes outside to lead us back to our car.
As we are driving back down the pitted track, I connect with something, or someone, out in the inky-black woods, that I cannot even see with my physical eyes, and the intensity of our exchange makes me smile. “What happened back there?” Bob asks after reminding me not to throw cigarette butts out of the window until after we've left the park. (I've been collecting all my butts in a small plastic bag the entire time and thrown exactly zero butts out of the window.) “I don't remember anything,” he says, “after we sat down in front of the stones.” I explain everything I felt and heard and saw and did, and he admonishes me for reaching into him the way I did, for completing the circuit, as, he explains, a part of my energies now live inside him, which could lead him to become sick, or die. I apologize to him, thank him for taking me along, and light up a few more cigarettes. The bright moon overhead gives us a dim sense of the road ahead, but we're no longer in a hurry, cruising along and enjoying the cool night air. The seed of something vast and immutable pulses inside me, its contours bent, black, old as mankind itself. I place a hand on top of my belly, smile, and silently thank goddess Kali for a strange and wonderful night.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
02 December 2015
dream-state writing – Bali
I was standing on a white, sandy beach that stretched roughly a mile into the distance. Before me was a fence of finely-meshed metal, eye-like segments kept upright by slender, silvery poles. On my side of the fence were shallow pools and small waves crashing upon the sand but little vegetation or other signs of life. On the far side of the fence, however, was a lush, thick, dark jungle whose tendrils, here and there, had crept through the fencing, low green feelers. I then became aware of a figure standing directly opposite me, on the far side. Tall and fit, she had dark brown, almost black skin, and breasts without nipples. Upon her shoulders were epaulets of some sort, golden metal covers attached to one another with a golden chain or rope. About her waist was a belt of some sort, round and golden segments that shimmered in the bright sunlight. What appeared to be wings sprouted from her back where the center of a human's scapula would be, sharp edges with concave endings and eye-like adornments similar to the fence's meshing, too many of them to count, moving so fast they could also have not been moving at all. Her dark and unblinking eyes were scanning the horizon behind me, but then she turned to match my enraptured gaze and suddenly her head grew tenfold in size and all I could see was her enormous, dark-brown face between the thin mesh links of the silvery fence, and there was something in the center of her forehead I could not fully make out and her great mane of black hair appeared to shimmered in the dazzling light but all I could really see were her eyes, dark pits of impartial nothingness, as inconceivable and deep as the cusp of an event horizon, yet they contained a certain spark, or presence, an essence that while invisible was nonetheless there, nonetheless, on some level of my consciousness, tangible. Her head shrank to its former size, she turned, and in her wings was that same impartial nothingness, that same pregnant and chaotic void I had seen in her gaze, but there were also innumerable eyes looking back out of the unfathomable darkness there, eyes I could not really see but feel as they probed my spirit and all that I am and ever was. She turned to look at me once more then vanished and reappeared perhaps 200 meters down the fence, turned again to look at me, then teleported two more times, each time a bit further down the far side of the fence, four times turning back to look at me. When she had reached the farthest point of the island I could see, she vanished altogether.
I awoke deeply moved by the experience, humbled before the unimaginable power my dream-visitor possessed, and knowing, somewhere deep down, that she had been and would forever more be watching me, my every thought and feeling, that if I chose a path of Light and Truthfulness I might one day join her on the far side of the fence but if I chose a path of Darkness and Deceit I would forever stay upon the barren sand, burned by the brilliant sun and denied the riches the far jungle had to offer. I thank this mighty force for paying me a visit and love her beyond mere words can say. Mahalo, suksma, namaste.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
I awoke deeply moved by the experience, humbled before the unimaginable power my dream-visitor possessed, and knowing, somewhere deep down, that she had been and would forever more be watching me, my every thought and feeling, that if I chose a path of Light and Truthfulness I might one day join her on the far side of the fence but if I chose a path of Darkness and Deceit I would forever stay upon the barren sand, burned by the brilliant sun and denied the riches the far jungle had to offer. I thank this mighty force for paying me a visit and love her beyond mere words can say. Mahalo, suksma, namaste.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
02 November 2015
slowly too slowly
Oh thank you dear Bali for all you do give for letting me within your confines to live. I love your green meadows your tall soaring cliffs the way you know how my flagged spirits to lift and how you do mete out your punishments justly upon we who waver 'twixt shining and crusty. Oh thank you for hosting my feet and my hands and making sure I see your coveted lands and making sure I don't forget what I came for – to drink in your beauty and taste of your camphor. Please let me stay longer please don't let me go to places less awesome to places more low for I am your son born in a distant land which slowly too slowly I now understand.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
01 April 2015
with clanging grace
He was overwhelmed by the forces in play that did whirl around him and through him today. The compound was filled with kids women and men all dancing and praying amongst their dear ken and playing the gamelan with clanging grace and joy in their heart and delight on their face. Men did laugh and murmur kids slept smiled stared the women bore goodies that they had prepared as votive offerings to gods seated high on empty chairs lifted high up in the sky. With tones as yet unheard by these foreign ears did this vibrant theater placate his fears and awake within him the urge to start praying in order to lessen childhood demons' baying. He saw a sea turtle spread out on the grass and his dressed-up image reflected in glass and lifted his hands when the priests did say to and felt himself reborn both shiny and new. He drank of the waters that fell from their cups and thought not of hygiene or other such stuffs but went right along with the rites Balinese that left his soul buoyed bright bursting and pleased. What's next for this whorphan? is what he now asks and knows that this heightened sense only will last so long as he keeps up his daily practice – with one hand on heart and the other on kris.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
26 March 2015
fortunes and luck
At 4 in the morning was when my clock struck to signal a shift in my fortunes and luck. I'd sprung from the bed before it could sound twice and switched on the light-saving overhead lights then sat in the small room for maybe fifteen producing a paltry intermittent stream. With a five solid minutes I buffered my quest yet when I arrived just one other did rest and woke not in time to head out with the group which duly out toward the chauffeur did troop. With no cars in our way we sped through the dark and walked in while their local driver then parked and met with a manku (or monk, in this tongue) who brought out dry sarongs for everyone. Thus clad and all ready we made for the spouts and entered cold waters with nary a shout and opened our chakras and relaxed our souls and let ring our innermost balancing bowls. After those 5 outlets had washed us off good we changed into dry clothing in which we could sit for a long period down on the stones and pray to many gods in varying tones. We lifted our bare hands up to chackra 6, washed them in smoke rising from red incense sticks, then prayed once again but with flowers between our fingers which had been so recently cleaned. After that was done sat for meditation and two of us felt a powerful sensation of energies flowing in down out and through repeating and flashing with patterns we knew. Once finished we went then to view Shiva's rod, the rock and stone member of a mighty god, then left by a side-door the groomed temple grounds and reflected on all the knowledge we'd found. We sped back past rice-field and workshops for wood and sought out a café in bustling Ubud and made there new friends with a small group of men. They had on their chests round devices which blinked which caused us to wonder pause inspect and think and caused us to jump in the leader-dude's van and speed right back out to the country again. The price-point was high for what we would have got wherefore we did not buy anything on the spot but pledged to meet up with him a few days hence when passions had cooled and our minds were less dense. My nap didn't happen for now I must ride to find me a resto with decent Wi-Fi where I can complete a task started last week before my eyes flutter shut tired and weak.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
23 March 2015
churning far side
With frothy peaks mounting atop the deeps black he ducked under wavelengths of ceaseless attack. When surfaced once more on the churning far side a perfect one coming ws all that he spied and turned for his takeoff and nailed it anon and without much effort was surfing and gone. When its forces were spent his exit arrived and his was a purest joy to be alive and he turned once more and once more paddled out while sounding his loudest and sharpest war-shout. A maiden was nearby and she turned to look as he from his forelock the briny drink shook but with a few stokes of his lean mighty limbs pulled past her and toward that one sweet spot did swim. Through haze sun was setting and sending up steam it watched as he kept getting up on his beam it watched as he sped through the oceans atop the great mighty breakers that never did stop. When his forces left him he aimed for the cove and thanked all the gods who looked down from above and thanked all the gods living under the sea in a short swift sincere surf ceremony. With aplomb he wormed slipped and dodged all the rocks and ignored the nay-saying beer-drinking jocks who piled on the shore-front to stand there and leer whenever a surfer-type came them too near. His heart though was pure and he kept his mouth shut and kept right on walking to his meager hut where he took a shower too brief and too cold then vowed he'd still love the sea when he was old.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
01 October 2014
on secret spots
I cannot explain where they lie, break, or pack for I have been sworn to a secret compact. To get to them we took the regular ways once we to the Goddess had given fair praise, once we had awakened and strapped on our boards, once we'd made sure all our bikes pointed forwards. They'll not remain secret much longer, I fear, perhaps a few months or maybe just a year, until they'll be crowded with Russian beginners who don't read the rules and are thus surfing's sinners. The breaks are near cliff-sides, sometimes they're near reefs where creeping fish linger with long, spiny teeth, where poisonous starfish and their polyps float, where wee male seahorses their progeny tote. Now come with us on this here new adventure to witness the ocean's ceaseless overture, that's written in current, peak, swell, chop, and wave, that dictates how we think, dream, talk, and behave. I will not say more lest I spill all the beans and ruin what's left (if you know what I mean), and give up the very last Bali secret, a spot that tourism has not ruined yet.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
26 September 2014
i love canggu
The shirt says 'I Love Canggu – Bali' on it, just that Love is a huge red heart half the size of my chest. With black and white striped boardshorts underneath it and a pair of white $1 thongs on my feet I look as much the tourist and feel as much the surfer as I have looked or felt for most of my life. I receive a warm welcome from my local friend and his family; he and I sit in his compound and eat before everyone else and smoke cigarettes and drink local beers and he tells me about which of his relatives live with him and which live elsewhere, at his farm near the Bratan volcano or other villages by the sea. His older son and daughter come and go, friends and paramours stopping by and leaving again, just as suddenly. A beautiful young lady plays us a song on a Les Paul electric guitar while singing along and I find myself falling in love with her as soon as she starts playfully demanding in Indonesian that he and I leave the room.
After dinner I get two sarongs (or kamen, since they are for men) wrapped around me and tied at the waist and a three-cornered cloth (already folded and held in shape with a piece of internal wire) placed atop my head. The white button-down shirt they give me is too small for my chest so we leave it open at the front, my Love for Canggu – Bali visible to all. We go first to the family's own temple, where my friend's father performs our rights after we have purified ourselves with incense smoke and prayed three times with our hands together in front of our heads and different-colored flowers grasped between the tips of our longest fingers. The priest splashes holy water into the upheld palms of our right hands four times. I peek over at my friend's six-year-old daughter to see what I should be doing and she flashes me a gap-toothed smile, so I suck the water into my mouth just as she and her father are doing but am not sure what to do with the last splash and decide to follow their lead and rub it on my face and neck. The priest sprinkles a few grains of white rice into our palms and we use the remnants of holy water lingering there to stick them to the middle of our foreheads. My friend says to me that it is now OK to ask the gods for things and so I start saying my Thank Yous and asking that my friends and family be blessed with peace, prosperity, and Happiness. Overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, tears run down my cheeks, to gather in my beard. The girl looks over with a puzzled face as the tall bulé Westerner next to her cries, sitting in the dirt floor atop a Disney-themed floor mat with frayed edges. Without wiping the tears from my face I follow my friend and his daughter to a second temple, one for the wider family, where his uncle performs the rituals for us and we stuff more flowers behind our ears and stick more rice onto our foreheads.
The process is short, not lasting more than ten minutes, and before I know it we are walking through the darkened streets back to my friend's house, to drink more beers and smoke more smokes. He shares with me insider information about some cheap parcels of land near the river not far from his house that are sure to jump in value once the government paves the big road there with asphalt. After inquiring my friend agrees that it would be acceptable for me to make a donation at the larger family temple. With his daughter in hand he leads me back over to it and I feel terrible entering without my kamen on yet am greeted with warmth and smiles and press a folded up one-hundred-thousand rupiah note into a priest's hands. He bows his head to me with his hands together at the forehead and as I turn to take my leave he and his attendants gesture at me to take some fruit, which I have now just eaten. Oh, to be sure, I Love Canggu – Bali.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
08 September 2014
with moonlight above
There are many things one must be conscious of when driving in Bali with moonlight above. The pavement is pitted and not always whole; one often encounters wide cracks and deep holes. There is also wildlife moving around, dogs darting or sprawled out right there on the ground, and bats by the hundreds that hang from their toes then race through the sky eating up mosquitoes. Animals cross or just chill out on roads – rats, geckos, and lizards; some cats; a few toads – these pale when compared to the tall mounds and heaps of dirt, rock, and soil that fill half the street. In order to avoid the heat and sunlight there are also workers who toil at night, who prop up a small branch, some leaves, or a twig to warn of a massive, car-swallowing dig. Far worse are the riders who drive without lights, or who use nothing but their high-beams, their brights, whose swift, iron horses can't see or be seen whereby it's a sure bet their hides will be clean. I have but a few, simple words of advice: drive slowly, use blinkers, and always look twice, have patience and strap a helmet to your dome lest you should be shipped in a box back to home.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
03 September 2014
on mighty Baruna
There is a short ritual that I perform; it's become a habit, something of a norm. I have now repeated it for many years through times that were happy and times that saw tears. When reaching a body of vast salt water I stop what I'm doing, say, “Hello, Father,” then walk to the sea just about far enough that one of my toes gets a taste of the stuff. I try to imagine I'm meeting my dad, and calm myself – feeling not happy or sad – then exchange of water by spitting mine out and taking a bit of sea into my mouth. I swallow it, tasting its salinity, then bow to the brutal but beautiful sea, say, “Thank you, Father,” and go strap on my board, then charge boldly in – always headlong, forward. It was not until I arrived in Bali that I understood to just which deity I'd been so long praying and thanking; soon a friend cued me it to majestic Baruna. He rules o'er the land of the aquatic forces, o'er turtles and surfers, seaweed and seahorses; his gaze never falters; he hears everything; will take a lost child under his sea-wing; will strike now with vengeance, now with perfect calm; does hold every seaman tightly in his palm. To thank great Baruna I find is a must, in him I place volumes and volumes of trust, please join in the habit written of right here and let go of torment and worry and fear.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
01 September 2014
contours and longitudes
The contours and longitudes of this fine land I'm learning as well as the back of my hand. To do this I drive off and race through the night, with deep breathing exercise conquer my fright, then get lost and trust in my deepest instinct while clearing the dust from my eyes with a blink. It helps that Agung has a strong steady pull, that in her vast presence I feel subtly full of confidence, harmony, stillness, and joy though I may see nothing but rice, corn, and soy. With luck I'll be able to fully explore this place and her people, their customs and more, their laughter and smiles, their tendencies too, on Bali I find myself daily anew.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
05 August 2014
life-giving sod
Upon this here island – the one of the Gods – is much rich, volcanic, and life-giving sod. Sent down from the peaks of Agung and Batur it nurtures a people both mighty and pure. Through smart cultivation they grow rice in it, manured with great heaps of holy cow shit, they coax from it mountains of fruits and veggies that mass on green bushes and bunch up in trees. We eat of this bounty most every day, so long as deities still grant us our stay, until life's inevitable strikes us down and turns us right back into life-giving ground. So eat up, my hearties, do not miss a grain, lest all of that labor should have been in vain, but finish each morsel that lands on your plate for she is a fickle and tricky one (Fate).
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)