A new plane ticket. Direction: Kathmandu. Everything is packed, ready to go. The train from Normandie to Paris, the RER to the airport. All is fine, it's time to fly again. All is ready, except for one thing. In line for checking the bags in, I realise that I forgot my passport. God damned, first time I do this one. Some would say it's a sign, I did not really want to go, or I simply should not go. People like to see signs, trying to find meanings in the chaos we call life. Things have to make sense many think in despair, hold on to anything, anything at all, but hold on, do anything you can not to let the vast emptiness of it all swallow you in the river of meaninglessness. Sunyata whispers, samadhi some call it, so many names to name the unknown.
So, I forgot my passport, that's enough sense for me, shit happens when we don't check twice. Take the train back to Normandie, buy a new tiket, kiss mam again, train again, RER, and 3 days laters I am back in line at the airport. This time I get on the plane. I'll remember not to make that mistake twice. Lesson of the day: a plane ticket. Learning always has a price, being absent minded comes with extra tax.
Paris, Istanbul to Kathmandu. I land early in the morning. Of course to add a little spice to the story, my bag stayed in Istanbul. First time it happens. That's 2 first times in a week, not bad for a trip. I laugh with the gods, oh you jokers, how bored can you really be to play with us little humans. Toys are us, it's with ourselves that we play and we can do is learn how to dance. Outside the airport, the taxi drivers wait for customers. When I ask for the ride price, I get the same old answer: "Hard time Nepal!! Gas price very expensive. No power. 700 rupees." Yeah yeah buddy, I know all your mantras, you can tell me all about your shitty government, your strikes, grandmother that just died, your wife at the hospital, your dog eating a cat, but laters please, cause now I just want a smoke. I want to get to my room and take a shower, a nap, a breakfast. I'll even sing along with you buddy, cause I know, life ain't easy sometimes. But for now, just drive. We get out of the airport, road full of cars, people, dust, klaxon noises. I ask my buddy driver to stop to get some smokes. We stop at a schack on the side of the road, a pack of Surya lands in my hands. A wax match, I light the smoke as we start driving again, window wide open, become one with the red dust...a puff of smoke fills my lungs...
The air is humid, the streets crawl with life, dogs, colored saris, a few cows, men, kids, all covered by this red earth. Shop owners spank the dust with a towel, water buckets gets thrown on the street to keep it down. Red temples, my buddy driver, by now became my brother. How many brothers and sisters do I have by now? A few thousands, no need to count, they are forgotten by tomorrow, too many is too many. Not sure what to do with this human family anyhows. Here, I have learned that words mean nothing or so little. A yes becomes a no, nothing holds, I am walking on quick sand. Just the facts Sir, action, I say. Words can come laters, when we know how to use them properly. For now, it's a mumble. OM they call it, the universe mumbles to itself like an old lady stuck in habits as ancient as she is.
My buddy, now brother for a few minutes, brings his right hand from his chest to his forehead each time we pass a temple, his lips mumble a mantra. My brother sees signs of some god where I see bricks, architecture, human history and mythology. No need any gods in things to see beauty in them. Them too shall pass, as everything will... beauty is impermanence. The fact that it shall pass is what makes it beautiful. We all dance our own play, the cow watches the taxi drive by with her gobbly eyes. OM she mumbles.
I get to my old apartment building, give my brother a few dollars mixed with some indian ruppees. Tomorrow I'll go buy a couple t- shirts, a pair of flip flops. In 3 days my bag will get there. Kathmandu. If nothing seems to have changed here, everything changed. The 7 years I spend in the mountains are a past life memory, a chapter it was. Once upon a time, my stary eyes were full of dreams, I was a girl that just landed on a new planet. Best friends, husbands, wives, lovers. Every day is a new chapter to write. After the rain comes the sunshine, an umbrella comes in handy. For now, I'll take my time, relax, read a book, take some pictures, watch my own illusions burn aways, scribble some notes for cyberspace, doodle, doodle, eat a plate of noodles. New dreams take form, old ones disappear, that is life, from dream to dream we dance. A moment together is what we share, better make it a beautiful one.
If here Love and everything is Maya, maya maya maya sings the song, maya the great illusion. The illusion is the very glue that holds this world together, the big G, gravity it is, gravity they search, a poem on a _blank page. Maya, maya on sale, goes the artists. Create illusions that's our job; we are the Maya makers. Maya dances with Lila, grows like a flower, matures like a good wine and sometimes turns into vinegar. Whatever it is, I do not know, so I just watch the mystery transform with every passing second. What I know is that I'll keep the flowers, the wine and the vinegar, all of it I'll put in the kitchen. I'll watch it all, to keep sharing this life with the holy cows, my brothers and sisters, enjoy the moment is all we can do, cause this too shall pass. Invite some friends over, vinegar will go in the oil on salad, wine in the glasses and flowers to decorate. Om welcomes me, home is where the heart is, a secret place where the ones we love live for ever. For now, my home is the klaxons noises, generators purring, silence of the city and dogs barking, Om carved on skin, play in an indian movie, glue kids and pretty boys passing joints, girls and boys with stary eyes full of naive dreams and comic book illusions, graphitis on walls, baba times, thalis and more stories to share. The book of life turns it's pages, chapters after chapters, drops of rain, a tear runs down the window, a cup of chai, water we are.
This time of the year in Nepal is celebrating time. Teej, Indra Jatra, Dashain, so many local tribal gods to please, abstract rituals from once upon a time occupies people's time and minds. When did it all start, no one remembers, most don't even know why the rituals exist. A dope fiend shoots dope in a corner, another lights a candle in a temple, habits, habits it is, habits can create a sense of security, I understand, no need to explain, whatever works for you my friend. Hold on, hold on to anything, but hold on not to let the mud swallow you in total insignificance. Rituals, art, war, illusions, all make us exist, for one nano second, we are something else than our empty selves, we believe in something, therefore we are, we transcend, we grow a new leaf. Art it all is, time pass, anything to give some sense to the Dance. I just dance, no need meaning, no need nothing, I am selfish, I lie and I cheat, I just dance cause I like to dance, just like you, I sit on a lotus sometimes, on a lion other times.
Slow, fast, angry, sad, joy, happy, smile, all is part of the play. I look around, the dance is all I see, a poetic image is better than seeing a dead machine. I'll choose the poetic image, eventhough the machine part has it's own kind of beauty. I like bots and other robots, they have their charm too, sometimes I even fear to be one of them, which of course would be ok too. We test ourselves, how far can we really go, each moment a new creation, we shall meet again. I guess we're all a bit robot sometimes, a bit poetry other times. Machines break down, gods and demons die, but human poetry is alive and kicking, growing and evolving, always a surprise, another love story to write. New story, I change the code, the <NO> becomes a <ON>. Let's do it in silence, hold me in your arms, shut up and kiss me, you silly robot full of poems. Breath. This too shall pass. I look in the miror, the robot was me all along, machines have their own kind of poetry, illusions and stary eyes. Wipe system. Reboot. Start over. A new life comes out of the ashes of the past. It's celebrating times in Nepal.
The moonssoon, almost over with, a month passes by. Each day, a new Once upon a time, old dreams evaporate in the dust, new ones take form out of the mud. Dreams, reality, art, life, all fuses together. "Messy art" he calls it, a messy fusion it is, fractals perhaps. A dusty poem on a muddy page to say thank you, cause it's all I can say. Thank you my brother, my sister, mother and father, thank you my friend and all the maya makers for sharing this Dance.