Alone or maybe in the mind Bali Spring '95

Inspiration: My sister Linda queen of AMEX commercials in toronto joined me for a few weeks in Bali and we cashed in a lot of vodka coupons


BALI BOYS

Skin black
to brown
not white
or even light enough
for jakarta girls who - longing western ways - cream their skin
to make it right.

they blend and bend with the beach
those black to brown bali boys
in the early morning light they seem to glide among the nets framed by coconut trees
like sets of paradise postcarded with a gentle breeze.

too soon the sun is up and
those black to brown bali boys bed down again or at least retreat
to shade made for chat, small craft talk, review the evenings catch and hatch
in foreign tongues some tourist trap.

or so it seems with out the means to fathom what goes on behind the smiles of
those black to brown bali boys.
we stroll they watch with wide eyes and sparkling teeth.
we swim they glide alone bedside sleek cutting surf.
we dine they pour the wine so fine featured.

we recline - alone or maybe in the mind
with those black to brown bali boys.


ARISTO

We are the aristocracts

French doctor couple from St. Tropez escaping summer hordes to bali shores.
Boston business barons en route to australia
Toronto tv producers putting on new lenses.
Japanese salarymen and their wives following flags undeterred by rumours of encephalitis
Spanish import/exporter Australian designer and their twins
Aristocrats all.

Flown in with wallets wide open, pallets primed for the exotic,
ready to 'do' the guidebook's wishes.
But also to be 'done' - as each so certainly expects.
Attending to complaints about the lack of spice or space or vendor restrictions.
Responding to inquiries "where's the coral" or "will you pose for my diary".
Feeding the egos with "sir" - "heh mister" from the kids.

We are the aristocrats.
Money - funny how that's all it really takes, but coupled with
White skin under chic clothes - or not much on at all, and
Worldly disdain - the " last year in ....." refrain,
We are the aistocrats.


I MADEE

Place for the first night

it had been a long and fascinating drive our first day in Bali thru verdant rice fields and busy road side markets down to the ocean and back up the volcano side till dusk became imminent with pink sky and shadows playing long and driver's restless song "let's stop in Tirta Gangga."

water palace or more precisely princely pools once gazed upon by kings and their kingdom now host to buses and their fussing frantic charges for an hour "how're we doin'? Gotta get to Ubud for dinner !"

However meetings there are no less fateful. From the guidebook we pick, not too randomly but stick to " midrange, clean friendly" all the usual all the necessary.

I Madee's Place.

"I" means he "Ni" means she we are informed. By the help so helpful in I/Ni's absence. Ice for the vodka and a cold beer to wash the sweat off and touch the last light reaching out from my bamboo chair on marble porch commanding terraced gardens disappearing as the evening captures our ears with cricket cries, nostrils with kitchen smoke, skin with fresh wet breeze.

We dine refined fare not anything to remember but magic on the hillside music on some new plane hints of things to come unknown unanticipatable not on request but blessed we will be with tranquillity and a moment to look inside complements of I Madee's Place.


STILL

i still want things from you

patiently bending the garden needs tending the earth no dearth of life. Worms insistently turning it over in their small world as we do each spring with shovel and sing song serenade of mind and body. The compost just one layer overturned.

Pack the sack recall the back of past paths or pursue pristine tracks. You never seemed to tire of the walk or evening fire where we found the night's retire. Bear prints or hints less clear but fear though subtle no less our whisper shared our security impaired. Melting snow days we cross reams of streams our feet wet your mind set on solving some inequation about the impossible relation between so much water and so little snow.

A midnight movement from you side of the bed we carefully divide then hands across to touch and toss the flame - sometimes nothing but a promise sublime waited patiently for and always tested though days go by with nothing more than your soft voice on my soft heart. So full yet i want and wait for more the door to the hope you impart.

Wanting hangs. and clangs so loud especially in a crowd of thoughts especially in our favourite spots there's lots of time and place to find your face to trace you back to challenge fact black white gray all play with truth all day our youth, middle age and finally sage each life a line. Wanting to entwine.

Wanting sighs - tries to sublimate the whys.
(and other questions).
Wanting waits - for signs of solid states
(or some suspensions).
Wanting dies - another sparkle in the eyes
(or at least intentions).
Wanting lives - some life it gives some questions posed some certainty defied some myth deposed some hope revived.
A chapter closed.


WARUNG

How i find my favourite warung

its the chicken
but the licken' of the spoon
has gotta shine or my mind
will be thinking bout the trouble at shittin' time

its the vendor does she render
her stall like a hall
bright and open, light unbroken
its a place where diners call

or is the space 'in your face'
no refuge from the deluge
of the street
no haven for your craven
to be alone with those who eat

its the broth
thick or thin, hot or not
puts your tastebuds where they ought
cooks the vegetables up nice
makes a porridge of your rice

nice crackers if you please
a little sate smokes the breeze
a taxi horn to warn
mosquito coils up ... and foils

i find it every time i look
or i settle for a cook
who talks and makes and charms like snakes
cause then, disarmed the waiting takes
no time, and i'm
consumin' blind
but feelin' fine at dinner time
in my favourite warung

Copyright Notice © Peter Gillies 1995