Kingdom

Why do we do what we do?

On one hand art is work, on the other, it beckons truth. I can put more of myself into art now than I've ever done (that's why I post here so seldom). I still need this space though, as a kind of bowl - a scrying bowl where I occasionally pour out a mess and try to divine the meaning of what I feel.

It's been a year of art trips abroad. I'm heavy and used up at the same time. I'm full - with portents, experiences, loves, achievements, failures and lessons. I'm empty - of energy, time, space, and peace. My house is a beautiful house, I've been cleaning it and filling it with all the things I love. But I want most of all to sit by a river and listen to the sound of it flowing. I want the wisdom of that timeless music. And I want to watch the sunset over the sea, dan persembahan bintang-bintang mewujudkan diri di cakerawala - performances devoid of stages, contexts, negotiations and people... with their needs, their pull, requests, affections, desires...

I remember a few lines from Goenawan Mohammed:

Akulah Adam dengan mulut yang sepi
Putra Surgawi
yang damai, terlalu damai
ketika bumi padaku melambai

I am Adam of no word
Heaven's child
at peace, too much at peace
when the earth beckons me

... this world - a kingdom. I watch it so that I can understand all over again, why we do what we do.

Just a perfect day

I was chatting with M.S. and he asked me what I was going to do on my birthday. I said 'maybe clean my house', to which he replied 'NO! No work!'. Which is quite sensible advice.

So this is what I will do:

In the morning, go for a walk in the park

Come home and put on a favorite dress

Look for a story book in the bookshop

Go and read it in a cafe where the coffee is too expensive and the vegetables are organic

Go for a massage

Come home and bathe with a new soap

Put on another favorite dress

Go for dinner with my lover

Drink wine

Sleep a great sleep

Myanmar II

We sat on the same steps of the same YMCA building, looking out the same dusty windows at the same blue sky and run-down shack. The same Burmese flag was hanging there limply, just like it did that day last year. We sat and talked about it, smoking together. Nothing had changed, except for the addition of a pile of bricks.

I had said, see you again. And there we were.

You, me, and the pile of bricks.