Places
Beat on the kul-kul summons people to the pura this morning and gamelan starts for the ceremony. Incense smoking, offerings aloft, village is alert, decisive. Brass shivers and syncopated heartbeat and (bodies marching and) the bell of the Mangku, high and bright. All attention put on the spirit. Barong moves through the streets today, transportation by music, in full regalia. (The battle for balance. Stops traffic, stops everything. Alhamdulillah. And what are you being called to do?)
I found the Margaret spoon when I was packing the wardrobe, I mentioned it to my mother and she was reminiscing about her grandmother (Margaret). How she would play the piano and sing, and her grandfather would sing too, and their “beautiful voices”. She (my mom) remembered that from when she was six years old. (In my imagination, she plays lieder by Franz Schubert, I listen to it now.) Margaret was also an amateur astronomer, which has me thinking about studying constellations. It’s often too cloudy here for stars.
Cloudy again tonight, and raining, and the sky is an inky thickness. They sit around a cross-section of tree, cigarette packs out, kripik passed. Low conversation. Light bullying. A start, a decision, not quite unanimous, to go on the roof. Bare feet up homemade ladders, disembodied voices, and the night tips over that always close-by edge into surreality.
Emptying the wardrobe. // (Finally.) Piece by piece sorting clothes (and other things) into (commandeered from cats) cardboard boxes. Items that disappeared, (underclothes, mostly), constantly needed and vaguely missed, one by one reappear, having been crumpled into rear corners, crevices, hiding between darker and heavier things. One could have sworn one had checked there, again and again. Some coated in dusty grey mold, some apparently eaten by it, elastics and polyester blends stiffened or dissolved or having become oddly, unpleasantly sticky in the dank incubator, black box, organizer’s nemesis, which has in certain ways ruled over us these past years, determining what we were allowed to have, and what not. You see, the tropical climate is unsuited to long-term storage (or possession) of anything at all (subject to disintegration).
(Avoiding questions, whether we could have been happier here, if we had done this all a little bit differently.) (We came to the guesthouse in February 2020. Having no idea what was about to happen, of course we stayed much longer than planned.)
The satisfaction of shining light on the interior of a more-or-less orthogonal container. Hollow. An empty possibility, belonging soon to somebody else. Sketching boundaries between ourselves and whatever will become of that.
Moving house starts today, according to the island gods. Ceremony this morning, awake before dawn to comb through the details, mentally then materially preparing everything. Not least, (my body), sarung, kebaya, symbolic trimmings. Painted on face, twisted up hair. Becoming a symbol, in person and gesture. Ceding control to complex performances, letting it be whatever it is. Stretching outward the various senses, as one does when (humbly, although today, quite publicly) summoning cosmic significance.
Thoughts fallen into all the wrong places, as if settled into gutters, now stuck there glaring back with soapy sachets of synthetic perfume, no solutions, and a lot of bitter complaints. Taking shelter in small wrongs, lost perspective, petty despair. Needing reasons to laugh, get turned on one’s head, reset. (Monkeys? Maybe. And just literally standing on my head. Being literally upside-down is being upside-down!)
Indeterminate clear, nice day for a Saturday morning, a modest tower, safe, from which to see. Last night. A past-hyped art piece (ha) that turned familiar in disturbing ways. That a certain world, once inhabited without question, was already perverse, designed by greased-up power-clowns, and world-historical problems, if not made clear, at least had some ugly guts spilled out, glorious tacky, and evil, almost innocent with shamelessness. A devil’s garden (Manhattan, Berlin, Jerusalem?). What things were born that still bear fruit, etc.
Weekend questions, am I fruit? As I breakfast (fried plantains with drizzle of palm sugar) leisurely on the bale with Glagahdowo and Pacitan (husband and G. and A.). Nongkrong. Temperature the same as skin. Sweetness on teeth, obscure (to me) vernaculars bouncing out time, bitter coffee biting down. The joy of being included, with eye-contact, in laughter, at a harmless joke, (about the pisang goreng, and who accidentally picked the over-burned piece). How I covet such rudimentary signs of trust. (Re-making a life on their foundation.) While contemplating a different city, and whether it could ever be, that certain things that happened, never happened.
Last night, beneath a sky full of stars. Crickets and tongaret and frogs of a hundred voices, night bird from the jungle with a wistful lilt. Full chorus. From within, Pacitan and Glagahdowo chat tentatively as they wire a fixture, poke fun at R., the youngest, for an accident with the motorbike. (He’s ok.) How did so much time pass without seeing stars? (One of rainy season’s more subtle effects, no stars for months.) The sound and the visible meet in expansive absorption. One doesn’t want to leave the moment for anything.
(One must, and so, one does.)
This morning. Wake in the different, the old, the becoming emptier place, where our presence thins. Wijaya kusuma, orchids, instruments, gone. Cats observant, unsure of change. To abandon all of these heavy, unfixable things.
But our footsteps are lightness. We orchestrate movement, flowing now as if downhill. We tell Blih that he absolutely must come visit (arguing against his inner voices). And we prepare, part by part, to disappear.
(To the place where one listens to stars.)
It started with the ants. The ants are being pesky today, (small beady black ones), doing this thing they sometimes do when it rains: they come out of the ground, running in circles with nowhere to go, so they find (my) food more quickly than usual. Then a pink and purple salad with inky black elements (no, not the ants!) next to pumpkin electrifies the day. Something I love is the always-everywhere freshness of vegetables, here. Still full of midnight air. Strings of raw, grated cabbage and beet are juicy and sweet-bitter, like the best Saturday ever, (or, as Sappho says, like love). I immediately want to share, with E., who is in Java today. So I add it to a list of things that need sharing. The list will solve problems of place, and time. Whereas love solves the problem of
A day spent adjusting between conflicted places and moods. Driving through Denpasar in Sweet Orange, windows down, concrete heat. Hair stuck to my cheeks, impossible to clear. Music from a younger country, (pie), dobro and whiskey, as the sun goes down and the city takes shape, interiors lit, full of smartphone advertisements, food stalls, diesel fumes, cartoon boba shops. A moment of lightness (under bright lights) in a foreign space. Dealing out as needed, the inside occupied by questions of boundaries and the effort it takes to let something go. Nothing quite settles until we get home, (it’s not home yet), wash feet, splash face, new toothpaste the scent of orange and cloves. Head on pillow. Ish, asleep. Lalah, playing, on top of the armoire. Waiting for E., and the closeness of warm skin, and for all of these things to slow to a stop.
A few days ago I lit an incense stick in the bathroom and as I shook out the flame a mosquito was drawn right into it, I think that’s what happened, it went so fast, it was puzzling, one minute I witnessed the collision of featherweight body with fire, the next minute there were ashes floating in the air. I blinked. Illusions hovered, visual errors, spots in my eyes, barely enough substance to focus on. Oh, I realized. I’m sorry.
Today in the pre-dawn I am awake, with thoughts like that, airborne ashes from a quiet but catastrophic combustion. Did a volcano erupt in my dream? I wonder, before I remember the mosquito that burned. A person I once knew with a career in pop music, social media plastered with lifestyle decisions, each phase earnestly renouncing the last, fast self-fashion. Hungry eyes, a curling thread of ash. The conventions of academic departments, offices stuffed with reading copies and slippery stacks of papers, white bundles bound by black metal clips, always slumping off to one side. Leaves, orange and brown and yellow, crackling under feet, woolen sweater, a chill in the air. School days. Time to light the first fire in the stove, curl up with a book.
Autumn. Or just, shifting. Sometimes you can catch the scent of seasons here, I mean the temperate ones, on a breeze blowing in, a tendril of air from a forgotten place. The monsoon is waning. Dry days ahead, clear nights, bright stars. Sharp horizon. Mountains without thunder.
Leftover notes from yesterday, recorded with morning coffee today. //
We met a guardian of the path at Ranu Pane, sitting on his sleeping mat, with a fire to keep his toes warm. And his bag of snacks, a jolly fellow. Stopped for a chat about mutual friends, traditional farming methods, and the corrosive effects of tourism. Always, what a small world it is, around here. //
The scent of woodsmoke in the mountains, memories of that. //
E. and I got a lot of weird looks from local tourists yesterday, this isn’t typical. Not sure why. People see me, assume E. is foreign too. Stare, heckle us, snap pictures with their phones. //
We saw at least two motorbike accidents on the mountain roads yesterday. Both women, one looked like she was fine, the other one looked very bad, she had blood running down her face, appeared pale and grey. Many had already stopped to help, so we drove on… //
A transport truck couldn’t make it up one of the inclines, it was overloaded with potatoes. “Boss goblok,” said E., who jumped out and helped push it to the next pull-over point. //
The high-altitude villages around Lumajang, which primarily grow green onions, smell like green onions. You catch whiffs of it as you drive through. //
I have clearer photos of the lutung but those feel private. //
I also have pictures of Gunung Batok, will probably share later. //
I have to relearn how to use “the good camera”, another reason it’s ok we didn’t see Bromo yesterday, my camera skills are not (yet?) worthy. //
I forgot my carnelian stone at home, I realized. //
Always, a beginner, again. //
Orang gunung/mountain person.
We wake up at 3 to reach Tengger before sunrise. G. drives me and E. in his truck, called “Sweet Orange”. E. (my husband) is a former ranger and guide in the park. G. is from a nearby village and has experience driving the roads.
I hope to see Bromo. (This hope will not be fulfilled.)
Sunrise comes, and I take pictures of Gunung Batok and the surrounding walls of the caldera. Batok is beautiful, swathed in green velvet, as a dream or a fantasy.
I still hope to see Bromo.
We’re not in a hardtop jeep, so entry into the caldera is prohibited. We decide to drive down from Tengger, to the east, and back up again, possibly to see Bromo from another place on the rim.
As we climb again in elevation, the drive gets scary, or at least I am scared. I can’t describe how terrifying it is. Hairpin turns, steep drops, no shoulder, broken asphalt. Clouds begin to obscure the surroundings. At some point, with steep drops on both sides, suspended in clouds, the road is broken enough that the truck loses purchase. G. is a good driver and gets us past, but I begin crying from fear.
Crying, then sobbing, I just break open.
G. parks the truck. E. holds me. We decide we have to go back down. But I am afraid to go down in the truck. Two local people come and offer E. and me an ojek, a ride down on their motorbikes. We accept.
The locals are understanding. I know they have driven this road a thousand times, at crazy fast speeds. E. has explained the situation, they won’t go fast with me. I feel safe. We get down past the scariest parts. (G. follows in his truck.)
We all sit and have coffee together. I am still shaking, most of what I remember from the conversation is that one of the men asks me to help him with English, which I do. (This was very kind of him.) They realize we have common friends, in our village on the other side of Tengger. These men trade in green onions and potatoes, while our friends trade in flowers. (Crops that grow in the tropical highland climate.)
We part ways with the Tengger people. We’ll drive the rest of the way back down in the truck.
Shortly after, my eyes still hot from tears, I have an encounter with a lutung (an East Javan langur). I spot him in a tree as we drive. G. stops the truck, I get out. I have my camera.
He is a black shape against the cloud. At first I think he’s a macaque, but he isn’t. E. says, from the truck, “lutung.” They are shy, they have been hunted by humans. This one at first jumps down from his lookout. I think he will run away. But he doesn’t, he keeps looking at me from behind ferns and shrubs. He starts climbing back into the tree. He comes out, looks at me. Then, like he knows better, he hides. He does it repeatedly, where he hides for a minute, then climbs up or comes out, looks at me. Slowly, with intent. I speak to him. I say I don’t want to hurt him. I make a hand gesture like a little wave. He lets me take a few pictures. I say goodbye, then go back to the truck.
G. starts up “Sweet Orange” and we continue home.
I feel this was Tengger, telling me that I’m not ready for Bromo. (I’m not sure where these big feelings come from, it’s a turbulent time of the month, I’m tired, more sensitive than usual, the terror, I’ve only felt fear like that one time before, hey, also on a mountain, and the breaking.) Then, the lutung. It felt like a gift, or a secret, or a word. Or something, I don’t know.
We will try again. (I will keep practicing and trying again.) I know we can just take a jeep. (Mas B. wants to drive us.) … But I will keep working through what happened today, because I pay attention when a mountain speaks.
Delayed departures and I notice Bali before leaving, or rather Balis, there being so many. The cocks crow from before sunrise and a pack of dogs barks at a passing presence, feral guardians of night. The scent of cooking rice mixed with floral incense smoke, women’s work, through sunrise. Mourning doves and frogs and tiny finches chirp their ambient language. Traffic heaves a periodic sigh, as on every workday, hordes of red-burnt tourists, the punctuated exchange of horns, brakes squealing, and fragments of conversation picked up from hidden alleyways. Giggling, crying. Colors run more saturated under heavy skies, overwhelming sight, and people walk uncovered, as if open to the sun. Plastics mixed with faded floral offerings crowd the gutters below their feet.
So open you might be fooled into believing she’s honest, a reputation ardently if sloppily maintained. Her government is tangled and obscure, embroidered with extra-judicial bureaucracies, her pathways impossible to navigate by compass, unmapped, and obstacles send you looping back in wild directions. You are the ant and someone toys with you. The more you try to cross, the farther from the source you go. So cloven is the island into slivers and pieces by rivers, ravines, and lava flows.
A silent goodbye to something here, pale jepun blossoms wreathed in green, or barren branches in their ever-staggered cycles, and black grass-roofed temples that house Barong. An extra moment granted to a stranger, the balance of the otherwise unknown.
Aventurra
Φαῖδρος: παρὰ Λυσίου, ὦ Σώκρατες, τοῦ Κεφάλου, πορεύομαι δὲ πρὸς περίπατον ἔξω τείχους: συχνὸν γὰρ ἐκεῖ διέτριψα χρόνον καθήμενος ἐξ ἑωθινοῦ. τῷ δὲ σῷ καὶ ἐμῷ ἑταίρῳ πειθόμενος Ἀκουμενῷ κατὰ τὰς ὁδοὺς ποιοῦμαι τοὺς περιπάτους: φησὶ γὰρ ἀκοπωτέρους εἶναι τῶν ἐν τοῖς δρόμοις.
Phaedrus: From Lysias, Socrates, son of Cephalus, and I am going for a walk outside the wall. For I spent a long time there, sitting since early morning. Persuaded by your fellow and mine, Acumenus, I take my walk down the paths, for he says they remedy weariness better than the racetracks.
//
I travelled to Italy when I was twenty. On a summer break from college, and all the dead men vying for my attention, I hopped on a plane, flew across the ocean and landed in a place where everything was alive, possibly dangerous, and definitely meaningful.
I went with a friend named Mary, but as it turned out we had different travelling styles. She had a schedule to see as many museums as possible. I hit a few of the famous ones but mostly I wanted to sit around. I was lazy? Unserious? Yes, and, I just wanted to sit and watch, to inhale the perfumes and eavesdrop on conversations, to take it in through my skin. To walk for a while until there appeared another cafe and sit some more. Sip espresso or wine or a spritz and feel my way into the feelings of the cities and towns with their people and fashion and vespas and cathedrals and high heels on cobblestones and cigarettes and the tiny jazz club in a basement in Rome. I think I journaled, but I don’t remember. I was busy taking it slow.
So I went around Italy mostly by myself, no cellphones in those days. Among the things that I remember best are the Sistine Chapel, where I craned my neck to gaze at the Delphic Sibyl; and crying as I stood before “The School of Athens”. Rafael made everyone look almost alive, in the world of the dead, which was already my world. I spent several days basking in the quiet magic of the Boboli Gardens, in Florence, remembering Eden. The covered porticos of Bologna made it irresistably cozy for a walker like me. My pilgrimage up the Portico di San Luca to the sanctuary was a revelation. Flushed from exertion, I ate bread and charcuteries overlooking the sunkissed countryside of Emilia-Romagna.
I walked so much in Italy that I wore out my sandals. I hiked between the seaside villages of Cinque Terre. I watched Aida at the Arena di Verona and Turandot with the loggionisti at La Scala in Milan. I ordered food off menus with no idea what it was. I ate a lot of gelato. My favorite flavor combinations were pistacchio and banana, or pistachio and yogurt, or straciatella and bacio (chocolate hazelnut). I met a painter in Florence who smelled like D&G Masculine (nice) and he let me crash in his uncle’s empty studio. In Rome I made friends with two girls from Naples, and we sat in cafes, smoked cigarettes, drank wine, and talked about Dante’s Divine Comedy.
The last city on my itinerary was Venice, but Venice overwhelmed me completely. On purpose I missed my return flight. I called a parent on a public phone with a shitty connection and informed them that I wasn’t ready to come home. I remember stunned silence at the realization they were no longer in control. I was holding their daughter hostage. Luckily, they didn’t refuse to pay for a later return ticket.
Mary was long gone at that point, it was just me. Hostels were full because Venice was hosting Biennale. I made friends with some artists who introduced me to a waiter called Faustus who had an extra bed in his apartment. He let me sleep there for a few weeks, I was never sure why. Possibly he was lonely.
I spent the rest of the summer in Venice walking around and trying to get lost. I got lost until I couldn’t get lost anymore, until I recognized every bridge and every turn, every shop window display of handmade sandals or stitched journals, every arched doorway with steps where I could sit with a book or a sketchpad and pen. I sat and watched the water move, imagined I could feel Venice sinking. I wrote down lots of feelings. It was inexpressibly poignant, beautiful and sad, the Medici architecture and shuffling crowds of tourists, the gondoliers pretending that nothing had changed, the water reflecting cathedrals and rowhouses in ripples of antiquity and impermanence. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to haunt Venice like a ghost.
One time, while loitering around the Piazza San Marco, I met a young man who said he was in the navy. He didn’t speak English, but kept referring to la nave, and eventually communicated that his ship was in the canale. And did I want to come see it?
It was already dark when I stepped off the pier near the Giardini Reali and onto the little transport boat. I wobbled to an empty seat. There were a few others on the boat, also midshipmen, who nodded at me politely. The ship was anchored in the Laguna Veneta. I could see it as we approached, a gray-painted steel structure towering over black water, pale under the beams of its own lights. I climed the ladder up to the deck, wondering if this was a dream or if I was getting in over my head or what. The on-duty officer took my hand and welcomed me aboard.
In a world apart, I remember the feel of the fresh paint under my hands, sticky and slick, as the young sailor (called Ismail) gave me a tour, showed me around. I remember the breeze whipping my hair around my face, the lights of Venice reflected like golden spires on the water. I remember I was left alone for a moment, all quiet on the deserted bow, and I rested my hands on the cannons mounted to the ship’s deck. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply and whispered, these guns are not Athenian guns.
After dodging an awkward makeout session (I already had a boyfriend and this one was rather toothy), we got on the transport boat and went back to the Piazza. I kissed the sailor on the cheek and said thank you very much, it was nice to meet you. It was well past midnight. I snuck back into the apartment where I was a guest and slipped into bed. My heart was pounding in my chest as I replayed the night, in awe of my freedom, my recklessness, and the power of my beauty.
Youth is full of aventurra. May it always be so, wholly stupid and somehow divine. Every beautiful thing deserves to get lost for a time in the land of the living. I was radiant and glorious, I did not look down, and I was not burnt by the sun.
A few weeks later I returned to college, where we started early modernity and, soon afterward, 9/11 happened.
//
Deep sleep last night with all that electricity in the sky. Thinking this morning about Shane MacGowan, some angel, as mosquitoes bite my hands, Jeki huddles in my lap, Lalah cries at snails. Nostalgia is a strange pleasure here, uneasy to hold, where even the seasons speak a different language.