The day started well.
The sky said: 'I am here for you. Now sit down and meditate. Remember: you are now in Bali, where people practice yoga, meditate and then meet their soul mates and fall in love. But all in good order. Stop looking for the charger. You don't need the blue shirt. In fact, empty your mind. It's goooood for youuuu'.
So sudden and surprising was this that I did. I sat down and meditated. In my case this took the form of a silent, furious fight with my own thoughts: the charger, the blue shirt, the people I need to write to and also some imaginary people that live busy, sophisticated lives inside my head, mostly adoring me. I did not get up. I sat there contemplating this inner buzz and traffic with some bewilderment. No wonder I'm so exhausted by 10 am.
By 10am: the neighbour had decided to knock down a wall standing inches from our house. Two scrawny characters were perched on my wall with sledgehammers. Our gardener couldn't keep up: the moment he'd spruced up one of those glossy, wide-leaved plants, they were back under thick layers of cement dust. It was like trying to remove snowflakes from a football field in a blizzard.
Not finished: besides his building initiative the neighbour appeared to have organised a cremation. I became aware of it when black ash started to fall gently on my computer, shoulders and eye lashes, mixed as I was saying with all that cement powder and in soothing rhythm with the sledge hammers. I don't think I could have missed it: in minutes I was blinded, blackened, smoked and choked.
I stumbled to the gate and ran. To the car, grab the keys, to the car. Coughing like a 60-Marlboros-a-day. I put the windscreen wipers on, and they laboured up and down, pushing about hillocks of ash and dust. As I drove away I thought of Pompeii.
The sky said: 'I am here for you. Now sit down and meditate. Remember: you are now in Bali, where people practice yoga, meditate and then meet their soul mates and fall in love. But all in good order. Stop looking for the charger. You don't need the blue shirt. In fact, empty your mind. It's goooood for youuuu'.
So sudden and surprising was this that I did. I sat down and meditated. In my case this took the form of a silent, furious fight with my own thoughts: the charger, the blue shirt, the people I need to write to and also some imaginary people that live busy, sophisticated lives inside my head, mostly adoring me. I did not get up. I sat there contemplating this inner buzz and traffic with some bewilderment. No wonder I'm so exhausted by 10 am.
By 10am: the neighbour had decided to knock down a wall standing inches from our house. Two scrawny characters were perched on my wall with sledgehammers. Our gardener couldn't keep up: the moment he'd spruced up one of those glossy, wide-leaved plants, they were back under thick layers of cement dust. It was like trying to remove snowflakes from a football field in a blizzard.
Not finished: besides his building initiative the neighbour appeared to have organised a cremation. I became aware of it when black ash started to fall gently on my computer, shoulders and eye lashes, mixed as I was saying with all that cement powder and in soothing rhythm with the sledge hammers. I don't think I could have missed it: in minutes I was blinded, blackened, smoked and choked.
I stumbled to the gate and ran. To the car, grab the keys, to the car. Coughing like a 60-Marlboros-a-day. I put the windscreen wipers on, and they laboured up and down, pushing about hillocks of ash and dust. As I drove away I thought of Pompeii.
No comments:
Post a Comment