Thursday, April 26, 2007
BALI HIGH
Yesterday, the flight from Kuala Lumpur to Bali, and two US American women on the plane next to me, one, in her late 50’s the other her daughter, smelled like they hadn’t bathed in weeks, with woolen hats, thick coats and boots. Z said, “Maybe bag ladies who found a sack of money and decided to go for a trip around the world.” Who knows, they may be two eccentric millionaires who don’t like to bathe. The world of travelers, the odd lots who find their peace on the road, or who are rootless and simply follow the call of the sun. What travel notes about Bali every began with two bag ladies on a plane?
My vocation is a poet and mystic who doesn’t fit into convention and finds himself antsy with the petite bourgeoisie. Though I crave community and tribe, some of us are not suited for the tribe. We are the out-lyers, who by necessity and instinct live on the periphery. We observe, write or speak a poem, or chant utterances of madness.
There are those who find their communion separate from man… the mystic and poet who by necessity commune with the woods and spirit of the land, who follow the rhythm of the day in its turn around the sun, when able glad to lend my hand to helping others, but the aid I provide is to focus my soul’s attention on breath and writing. Is there any difference between prana, love, and sutra?
I’m trapped in this very lovely and jaded hotel near the ocean, looking to settle down for the day and write. Bali the land of temples, art, dance, music, mythology all crammed into this island about 140 K by 80K wide. An island where the confluence of Hindu, Animism, Buddhism, Islam and perhaps hundreds of strands of ideologies and theologies wove their way into the fabric of daily life. Why did it take root here? Why do some cultures disappear into irrelevance? Why do others flounder?
On Bali, this tiny island paradise, there is a fervor for building temples to honor the family, the clan, royalty, and the various temples of Vishnu, Shiva, and Kali. In some ways it's absurd to then think you can capture in a snapshot or word a culture as rich as this with its diverse history, religion and art. But we do try to capture a small flavor of it.
Yesterday, the flight from Kuala Lumpur to Bali, and two US American women on the plane next to me, one, in her late 50’s the other her daughter, smelled like they hadn’t bathed in weeks, with woolen hats, thick coats and boots. Z said, “Maybe bag ladies who found a sack of money and decided to go for a trip around the world.” Who knows, they may be two eccentric millionaires who don’t like to bathe. The world of travelers, the odd lots who find their peace on the road, or who are rootless and simply follow the call of the sun. What travel notes about Bali every began with two bag ladies on a plane?
My vocation is a poet and mystic who doesn’t fit into convention and finds himself antsy with the petite bourgeoisie. Though I crave community and tribe, some of us are not suited for the tribe. We are the out-lyers, who by necessity and instinct live on the periphery. We observe, write or speak a poem, or chant utterances of madness.
There are those who find their communion separate from man… the mystic and poet who by necessity commune with the woods and spirit of the land, who follow the rhythm of the day in its turn around the sun, when able glad to lend my hand to helping others, but the aid I provide is to focus my soul’s attention on breath and writing. Is there any difference between prana, love, and sutra?
I’m trapped in this very lovely and jaded hotel near the ocean, looking to settle down for the day and write. Bali the land of temples, art, dance, music, mythology all crammed into this island about 140 K by 80K wide. An island where the confluence of Hindu, Animism, Buddhism, Islam and perhaps hundreds of strands of ideologies and theologies wove their way into the fabric of daily life. Why did it take root here? Why do some cultures disappear into irrelevance? Why do others flounder?
On Bali, this tiny island paradise, there is a fervor for building temples to honor the family, the clan, royalty, and the various temples of Vishnu, Shiva, and Kali. In some ways it's absurd to then think you can capture in a snapshot or word a culture as rich as this with its diverse history, religion and art. But we do try to capture a small flavor of it.
Neverthelss, whether it is Angkor Watt or the Mayan lands, one is invariably left with the feeling of dilettantism: tasting much but not savoring and believing you can articulate the ineffable. Unless one is rooted in a spot, able to dig down, stop their world, and live in that world – how can you write about it as Truth and not some exercise in Dilettantism?
However, we live in the Age of Dilettantism, where the god Tantalus is swimming in the silage of contemporary culture, where everyone is an artist, every word an art form, and the driveling claque opine mediocrity. We assume that if we have a pen and paper and a subject in front of us we can freely march in and write about it with authority.
I am awed by most of the subjects I’m confronted with. When successful it is a process of radical subjectivity – the I of I – is engaged. When the poet peers into the eye of the tiger and confronts his own mortality then the words, once distant and imperceptible, suddenly are vivacious and succulent.
Reader, can I take you into this world? The reader is not reader, the words not words, nor even the text that appears here in front of our eyes – here the radical mirror of our loving- a canticle of our devotion – as we begin this journey. (Or, is it merely a Canticle for Leibowitz? Please, remember the bagels this time.)
How does a place speak to your soul or your being? Even there in the space you are in– on a computer, opening a book, or in the fantastic turn of the metaphysical universe – let us suppose you imagined a poet who was writing about you. What would we say about each other? What could we imagine together? Would we take a journey? And if we were suitable companions – would we embark as lovers, fearless voyagers, undaunted, and capable of astonishing feats of redemption?
The places like Angkor Watt I'm speechless; having traveled around the world to see it I was humbled. My vast vocabulary was suddenly muted and I was grateful for the silence. Genius should humble us all. My notebooks are filled with fragments of impressions, my photos speak volumes, but I could never quite capture the feeling of grandeur of Angkor. Will I feel the same way about Bali’s temples?
Reader, can I take you into this world? The reader is not reader, the words not words, nor even the text that appears here in front of our eyes – here the radical mirror of our loving- a canticle of our devotion – as we begin this journey. (Or, is it merely a Canticle for Leibowitz? Please, remember the bagels this time.)
How does a place speak to your soul or your being? Even there in the space you are in– on a computer, opening a book, or in the fantastic turn of the metaphysical universe – let us suppose you imagined a poet who was writing about you. What would we say about each other? What could we imagine together? Would we take a journey? And if we were suitable companions – would we embark as lovers, fearless voyagers, undaunted, and capable of astonishing feats of redemption?
The places like Angkor Watt I'm speechless; having traveled around the world to see it I was humbled. My vast vocabulary was suddenly muted and I was grateful for the silence. Genius should humble us all. My notebooks are filled with fragments of impressions, my photos speak volumes, but I could never quite capture the feeling of grandeur of Angkor. Will I feel the same way about Bali’s temples?
I needed to spend weeks here in the jungles, freely wandering through the ruins, slipping over the mossy tangle of stones, peeling back the roots of memory from their twisted integuments wound in the sacred temples. Now, almost two years since, in the repose of tranquility and the distance that time offers, I’m able to retrieve a tiny bit of the astonishment of standing inside a temple from the 13th Century, but I must admit, I have a greater admiration for the banyon tree that will one day reclaim this temple. Our brief light of a pseudo-civilization who spark and die the trees will reclaim this instant of immortality, and the wind will sweep across the globe carrying the memories of voices. Only memories.
Is the role of the writer and the voyager to provide the rich socio-anthropological detail? As a poet can you allow me to set your soul to dreaming with my words (if it is a good day) and make you lust so deeply for that place you will feel it as an intimate whisper of longing in your own soul.
As to Bali, the sun is setting now as we're speaking, I’m glad that you could join me as the waves rush in, the sun is a ruddy red orb suspended in the hazy sky, and these images are drowning in my third glass of a very delicious Chilean sparkling wine. Cheers mate!
Bali High!
Namaya
Is the role of the writer and the voyager to provide the rich socio-anthropological detail? As a poet can you allow me to set your soul to dreaming with my words (if it is a good day) and make you lust so deeply for that place you will feel it as an intimate whisper of longing in your own soul.
As to Bali, the sun is setting now as we're speaking, I’m glad that you could join me as the waves rush in, the sun is a ruddy red orb suspended in the hazy sky, and these images are drowning in my third glass of a very delicious Chilean sparkling wine. Cheers mate!
Bali High!
Namaya
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