Off to Bali-land: the preamble / a Xmas up in the air

How do I get to watch American Graffiti late at night in Bali when culturally, aestheticaly, environmentally and planely contextually it doesn’t fit? like going for a drive-in cinema in Tibet.
Well, through myth. Plain enough for you? Religion if you prefer.
Yes, I hadn’t seen it before, and yes it always flashed a mental warning that I should, for benchmark purposes.
But how..?
Am aterizat in Denpasar pe la opt seara. Had a long flight, first Ldn to Amst then this one via Singapore to Bali.
Night-day, was still unclear to me as the time-beast and I had lost touch with each other somewhere… in a meditation room in Schiphol. Chiar si atunci, treceam inca prin momentele alea de still-tension – adrenalina in slowmotion, that toxic faze of it that creeps into your system after years of long rush-working hours and self feeding drive for success.
Evenimentele recente si vizita glonte la Bucuresti sa-l vad pe E, did too little to pull me out of it.
Alt avion prins in ultima clipa la Londra spre Amst, cu one faith warning signal at the gates when the scanner just retorted: “Wrong Airport”! well… almost like a wrong pattern of life maybe… si chiar si asa, pe ultima suta de metri inainte de concediu, cu rotile avionului deja aproape pornite spre pista, eu inca negociam cu un MD despre niste detalii de job super-offer si ma straduiam sa tin all the discs up in the air while I threw another and another dish of “business joy” up in the joggling game.

Well, out of this, fell asleep (I always recover missed night hours when flying…) and into that – wondering the corridors of Schiphol in transit trying to find again those bookshop shelves in the shopping area where Y. and I dived into each other’s breath again… in 2008 I guess. After that escapade and cat mouse game in the city we played so well. It was all changing, both airport and past, and we were… but only years later… ungripping the memories.
Well, not that impressed, not that tender … but I was still wandering. Ended up in the prayer room as a voice had annouced a small Christmas ceremony was about to take place and I had just the time for it – The only occasion that wd have really reconnected me to what Xmas had been every year to me till then. Now, with fam and core friends left in Colchester and Bucharest or scattered through Europe, I was more alost then before. Layers of me have already been falling apart this year in the hands of desperation. And I am becoming indifferent to that. A sign of maturity… the words of Seneca would say.
Praying and singing in English (with a heavy Dutch accent) Christmas odes to Mary and Jesus. Preotul in predica finala ni-l imbraca pe Isus si ai lui in haine de refugiati. A refugee in the house of the Lord. A favourite theme lately, though I agree, suna ca si cum n-as fi de acord, but I do, we are… we are indeed that – refugees in the heart of light bearly grasping the meaning of it all. Si asta e inca o varianta de viata preferabila altora… leave it. Further..:
Lit up all candles in the end. Symbollically. Erau electrice, but still. Vorbit cu patru cinci oameni dupa, intr-un fel de comuniune frateasca. Mostly genuine. Chiar si tipul acela care imi tot spunea ca e incantat ca uite asa a cunoscut un frate si de pe alte meleaguri si ma intreba daca l-am
cunoscut pe nu stiu care misionar venit pe la noi prin rasarit. In fine.. alt nivel de autenticitate… eu am empatizat mai mult cu cei mai putin înversunati dogmatic. Mi-a prins bine totusi.

Boarded. Again pretty much last one, de dat asta on purpose. Am stat pana in ultimul moment pre imbarcare sa trimit un email cu povestea din Aprilie.. cu vestile…
Onboard then, but still net connected am mai dres-o cu ceva mai light, mai o poezie, mai un cantecel. Catre aceeasi lista de prieteni.

Gata, continui maine. E 3:30 AM. Gotta catch some sleep. Though still jetlagged as you can see.
Way behind the schedule with the notes. Primele 24h mai pline decat credeam. Dar not over the board. Unless I don’t sleep.

Three films on the flight. Yes. Tried to read, but the time fragmentation, … nope, it was actually me , the same deflection… easier to catch on a couple of films I missed instead of reading.
The last Guy Ritchie film – The Man from U.N.CL.E. – his style applied to what the Roger Moore or early James Bond films (of the 70-80s) looked like. That colour and mood code. Not really impressed. But ok. Just entertainment. At least it wasn’t bad.

Mad Max: Fury Road – the 2015 remake with Charlize Theron and Tom Hardy. Pfff… done and dusted. Will try not to remember much about it. Not horrified, but I should’ve expected it. Pass.

Amadeus by Milos Forman. Still got the last 10′-15′ of it to see. Interesting but not as impressed as I’d have expected. Though indeed the grotesque joie de vivre of Mozart depicted here seemes to be about the only complete reality in the film. A lot of the rest, while based on a play, it is not necessarily true but augmented by a rumour started during Salieri’s last years that he may have conspired to M’s mrdr. But despite the overly charicaturesque impression M’s character leaves on the viewer, this film is still an hommage to his creative genius. Outwardly declared.

Somewhere in between all these we flew over Bucharest. Well, the pilot specifically foretold us that he’d be passing Bucharest in his way. Thought I saw it indeed, a street light drawn map of it. Looked like Buch, but I wasn’t entirely sure it was it. On this flyover I hung a look onto E somewhere into the maze of it all wishing him well.

Long fall asleep. Just as I was somewhat through the second film. Woke up donno how many hours later finishing it. Should’ve dropped it altogether instead.

Ce fac… keeping off the hard of it, as
if words won’t be enough to tune to it. To the feeling of it! I do this way too often. Losing into details of ok stuff, making it aparently necessary to the truth of the moment, of me, and procrastinating the essential.
even by explaining this I’m actually doing it again…. always adding context, colour, mood, event, constellations, as if there MUST be a mapping to all this and my existence, my grain of truth would thus be forever retraceable. Haven’t obviously learnt that loss of it is the most poetic beauty of it all. Spinning on the ecstasy of the moment the “forever” of it is wonderfully perilous. Hence the taste SOOO intense. That’s when I stop noting it, explaining it. But to myself. I entwine shred after shred of heart and brain cell into it. Expanding it into an aura of … my heart beats the beating of my heart. Every myocite of it pulsates it’s own emotion. So the fact that in the end all thenmuscle fibres swarm up tying a bloody knot into that moment is a miracle. I feel I have a myriad of hearts then. Little ones, shivering up to life. Like that tapestry of palm leaves all trembling their each story into the wind back in Cuba. The same story but on so many voices. That’s how the core leaves in me. :

The most relevant and intense experience on this flight was the warm sarong of emotions


embracing me from the tips of my fingers all the way up to the imagination of how eyes feel in my mind. All that insatiably deep:
I had opened up the window cover and my chest opened to a marvel of open ocean. Columns of marble rising out of my memory into a splendor or miracles. The essence of love was floating in these tropical clouds unperturbed by time, unchallenged by our decisions (mine or my lover’s), reintroducing my 39 years old soul to my 25 years young nakedness of heart. And this re-encounter of the foresta perdida of my previous decade, the woods of light into which my heart died back then, was a magic I didn’t expect on this voyage. I mean, I knew I’d have a stoppover here, but thought myself cured of it, curious maybe, but detached from the deep emotivity back then. Still!, now again!
Felt an overwhelming sense of freedom watching these 80’s white bright yellowed glows (ripped like from a polaroid photo) condensing into the blue of the oceansky in front of me. It was me back then flying over to Singapore to get booted out of my life. Of my absolute love and my utter illusion of it into the terrible chasm awaiting for me there. Barely managed to fly my body out of that oblivion without any tragedy bloodying the empty streets of mine at that time. And took years to climb my inner breath back from the horror of it. And now, on repathing that presence of spirit it is this sense of open skies, of immense possibilities that literally hug my heart eliciting such a gratitude out of it. Gratitude for what though? for living..?, I don’t know. To God I guess, a total rejuvenation.
I sit on the terrase of our house in Canggu, Bali late late at night writing while listening “Paradise Circus” by Massive Attack on repeat. It is this sense of orange difusion of love that i sense in it, luckily overimposing on the story of that moment.

“It’s unfortunate that when we feel a storm
We can roll ourselves over when we’re uncomfortable
Oh well, the devil makes us sin
But we like it when we’re spinning in his grip

Love is like a sin, my love,
For the one that feels it the most
Look at her with a smile like a flame
She will love you like a fly will never love you again”

Had a long discussion with Sorin about it the night after. Told him all abt it and he was himself laughing and joking, but deeply I know he’s very well connected to this landscape of emotions and that is the answer he never gave me but which I extracted out of that chat. A sense of ingenuity of feelings that we can’t deny remembering or reliving. It’s part of who we were and we are.

I kept myself from wandering on the hallways of the airport as the transit was vey short. Plus, the years of airports across the world and the modernity of some now, is likely to show this one a dusty old space in reality versus the modernity of other airports with other of my love stories enpicted in ’em. With other passions breaks or reunions. Of which the Amst and the Roman ones or even CDG or Garde de Nord are particularly remarcable transit spaces in my life.

Flying out of Singapore I felt a sunset resting over nebulae… and a sort of post-emotum triste. But not sad. A light melancholy, more like a meditative stance over the lack of proper sadness. . . The sort I had expected to encounter on way to Sing, not out of it.

Landed in Bali. Ngurah Rai International Airport.

The answer to the initial question?, well, over the next day.


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