30th Dec 2015 Morning.
Late night sleeper. I share a large bed with G. It is a ritual by now: when I go to bed she wakes up (as she’d hve had 4-5h of sleep by then). Reads a bit, walks around, muses at the night slice. And probably goes back to sleep an hour or so after I fall asleep. That’s usually around 3ish AM (+/- 1h).
“How much time do you spend noting this all down?” she said last time. And implicitly when do I find the spare moments?
“Well, just a bit of night time…”.
“So you sacrifice travel and sleep time..!?”.
“Well… not really, I travel during daytime and just sliding this in between sleep and wake. Should manage to cut it down to 6h of bed time a night, shouldn’t I?”
This morning I woke up twice, around 8:00 i guess, G was still snoozing, and then sharply a minute before my six hours counter was up. Finally afresh. My last dream had suddenly floated above shelled in a glossy inconspicuous imaginary baloon towards the centre eye of the tiled room-roof. Soft shards of weirdliness were still reflecting in my arms and shoulders, my fingertips.
My grandma had been dying of old age in it (well she actually passed away about 3 years ago) and we were sad about it, but somehow accepted her need to pass. And were slightly prepared for the feeling. So one evening, when life exhausted her last breath into suspenssion, we slowly put her into a sort of a mourning bed, just a regular quadre of wood layered with thick bedsheet, and a puffy white bedcover like the one she used to cover herself with at winter nights. Covered her all in it. And I did the wake night sitting with her. It felt like the rustles of her “final long sleep” and my semi-wakefulness while in the chair next to her allowed for an imagination of her shuffling in the bed. So I dreamily rearranged the covers pushing it sideways in between the body and the bed-frame. My hands were sinking in the cloth dives around her and felt slightly vacuumed in this side crevasses. But, towards the early hours, I clearly heard her sneeze. Well, I remind you, she was half burried in this funeral bed, assumed dead. But this sneeze made me wonder with hope.
So when the rest of the family finally woke up and came around her hours later, we called a couple of doctors as well, a mortician and a podiatrist. And slowly began to unwrap her. A night smell was softing out of it all. The bedframe and all had turned into a sort of a throne, chairlike casket. The tiny being began to surface, and the doctor held her legs, gently testing for rigidity. Well, not so much of it it seemed. Grandma let out a shy whining. We revealed the rest of the body, it was surely her and definitely alive. Her hair, face and posture however were my mum’s. Though we were fully aware she was grandma and my mother was definitely in the crowd with us. Just strange that gran’ took my mum’s appearance from even when mum was 40. Kept whining how tired she was, awfully and almost begging the sleep back, the end. Still, she seemed to be getting younger and younger by the minute. Soon they raised her, and we walked out of this place. She took on back her true visual identity and began to reluctantly walk behind us. Slowly with small shy steps as if not wanting to keep us back or bother us. I was happy she was alive! A sense of familial security. A re-integration into complete life.
Told G about the dream. The memories of childhood summer glow?, the fact that G herself told me about her dad and how he called on her these recent days? what was this experience made of? or was this space at the confluence of spiritual waters (hindu-buddist-muslim) that allows for thinner veils between beings of different worlds..?
Had long chats with G these last couple of evenings. mostly about anguish and path definition. Lars von Trier Melancholia type. Being with other people, and what’s driving me, her… morality of couples, responsibility towards peers.. How do old people manage, how do kids… life stance difference between G&A, mixed alternatives. I couldn’t say I found an answer or at least a door to a house of answers after all. Tried to share some of the things that shaped me.
Write a letter. To key people. she said. She’s gotta do it herself.
Chose a hard one – M. I put myself in the right shoes and it felt really difficult. As I realised I may just turn into a storm again. Unresolved. After so many years. A coarse sculpture of feelings. I’m curious how it will be to G.
All these maybe, harsh patterns of life that can’t make up it’s mind either to stay alive or vanish.
30th Dec evening.
Am vorbit cu E. Din Ubud. Palatul Regal. Era obosit, trist. Extenuat de incertitudine.
Briefed him on the abundance of symbols and details that seemed plucked out of the yoghinic journals of Eliade. Was watching buildings and statues and a word kept pulsating in my mind – Maitreyi. It’s sonority connecting eastern european magic cosmology to the indian and south eastern correspondent lanscape in my memory. E quickly corrected me that their story was not that exotic… just the geographical setup; but the sound of it was to me. So I felt the need to share that feeling with him. That supra-reality that seeded our teenagehood. L-am simtit insa ancorat in realitatea fragila a unui univers mult mai limitat acum, cu evenimente repovestite de mai multe ori. Recente. In lipsa unei istorii calatoare in spatiu, a lui e calatoare in angoasa momentului. Un mesaj de la R sau botezul, …fiind mult rezonante. Am mai vazut asta in ultimele luni la el. Nevoia de impartasire a intensitatii experientei anului astuia ajunge sa remodeleze aceleasi si aceleasi evenimente ca un leitmotiv.
E: Vezi, simte, experimenteaza toate acestea si pentru mine, te rog!
Faced all the monsters inside. Daca nu era discutia cu G acum doua zile despre traditia dintilor si ochilor, si altor trasaturi care descriu un spirit bun sau rau la balinezi as fi fost doar fascinat de ceea ce am vazut. Asa acum the wildness and aggressivity of it was too obvious.
So I was mesmerised but slightly tensed about the meaning of it. Only later during the traditional dance of the Barong I understood some of these creatures with protruded eyeballs and fangs may actually be benevolent. As if they are of a more human transitory quality between stages of good and evil, wavering from lne to another like morally feeble creatures we are, I am…
M-am retras undeva intr-o curte alaturata, aparent pe aceeasi structura arhitecturala ca a templului. Some of these houses and constructions stilm function as private resisences. Desi am intrat fara sa ma opreasca nimeni, cutreierand pe aleile si in gradinile oamenilor. All prt of the same wider complex. Si de acolo l-am sunat, dintre penele înverzite de muschi ale unui dragon regal. Arcade si porti sculptate spectaculos. A world of spirits. Amintirea universului experientelor religioase eliadiene abunda. Magia povestilor din diverse culturi pe care le citeam cu nesat cand eram mic. Nu numai asiatice, africane, rusesti, romanesti, franceze, germane, etc. The story idea so connected to my universe of myth construction-deconstruction.
Stayed for the dance show at 19:30 in palat in curte. Impresionant! La asta ma asteptam. Cred ca la asta se referea si Andrei Serban.
As vrea sa mai vad. Undeva multitudinea asta de storylines, all in your face, toate ritualice, au un design spiritual/social care imi da siguranta. Satisface un labirint palpabil de traditii, de mituri care este mult mai usor dicibil, chiar daca mai alambicat, caruia ii gasesc solutia cu fascinatia vizuala. Ma uit ma ele ca la o epopee in imagini. Spre deosebire de traditia crestina care mi s-a infiltrat in fiinta pe nivele la care solutia este interioara, tine de un efort emotional, psihologic, sau spiritual. O cale mai grea. Pur si simplu pentru ca m-am expus la semnificantul ei mai intens decat fata de cel al altor culturi. Pe de alta parte, desi fascinatia “desenelor in miscare” din lumea asiatica raspunde unde nevoi de teatru, de transmutatie simbolica mai accesibila, la nivele profunde e mai probabil ca nu intind radacini suficient de lungi in sufletul si mintea mea incat sa ma reinvie din caderile grave.