Learning to Swim

The fishing boat rises and falls on the turbulent blue-black sea.
One moment I see it, riding high.
The next it is barely visible. I wait for it to return
It seems as if the man is drowning.
Not screaming, just quietly accepting his fate
Because he didn't learn to swim.
A strange decision for a man in a boat at sea.

He places his success at what he does in the hands of his god.
He learned from his father, as his father did his. That seemed enough.
Up until now, his skills were sufficient. A strike from a stick from his father ensured he listened. 
A soft word from his grandfather reinforced his faith.
Perhaps a caress from rope burned hands and moral support from a broken back.
Up until now, he has been rewarded. A regular catch most days, enough to feed on and sell at the market.

Now he is to blame. The net is empty, his children hungry.
He searches the past for his mistakes, his wrongdoings, his sins from which no redemption came.
He beat his wife once too often and too hard.
He over-priced his catch or sold yesterday’s fish today.
A man must provide. He must be strong. 
Now he feels the weakness of his age.
His god is his only guidance now. Provide or be punished. The law is simple. It is the gospel of the enslaved. 

Now he feels the chill of the sea at his feet. His life is leaking away.
He sits and waits. God will come. God is his only hope.
A wave catches his breath. He chokes, tastes the salt, he feels the sting in his soul.
He hears his wife cry. His son is gone some years, drowned as he would, on a lonely sea. The sea is unforgiving. The waves drown the sounds of sorrow. The sea is its own god, answerable to no one. As deep and cold as any part of nature.
He calls for his son, his father, his god.
There is no answer. He knows there is no answer. 

The last wave comes. 
The fisherman casts his last bait into the Black Sea below.
He feels the tug of the deep and he resists momentarily.
He opens his eyes and sees the end. It is quiet and welcoming for him now.
There is no more anguish, no pain of living, just the joy of having lived, of knowing what life is and does.
He closes his eyes and mind against the currents of thought that brought him here.
He says goodbye to his maker and stops breathing.

The sea continues to move under the lifeless body. Fish gather and feed. Nothing remains now except the memories of others. 
Today he will be the reward for the fisherman of the sea. Him not them; the others, the survivors, the ones that learned to swim.

A third side to the coin

An impish face smiles my way and greats me with a manly handshake that is the dichotomy I face each day when traveling with Surendra. It’s the two sides of the coin once again, and I’m seeing some aspects of a darker side, a more somber side. Perhaps this coin has many faces and only time, patience and much questioning will expose them all; or at least, some of them. Right now I see the adult between the boy and the man.

It’s not that we are running out of tourist things to discuss. We are always more than satisfied with the amount of information we receive at each and every turn. Some history on a building or cricketer, something to do with a fruit I’ve never seen before and not likely to ever see again, a bit of geography, a Buddhist saying, a remedy from a tree not found anywhere on the planet except the deepest part of a distant Sri Lankan jungle, and a nice place to eat; especially a nice place to eat. Surendra does like his food although his diet could do with a bit of Buddhist interrogation.

Nevertheless, after a 20 day period confined to a Hi Ace, people tend to find time to reveal something of themselves beyond platitudes and peripherals. 

Surendra’s collision with life has been ‘interesting’. He’s had his share of personal dramas and delights, disappointments, experiences with other humans, and a decent bite of the cultural cherry that makes him so Sri Lankan. On the odd occasion does he expose some regret as to how things went or how he might like things to go in the future. I’m not in a position to wish for a second go at life but apparently, Surendra is. He obviously knows something I don’t. Or someone! The request he has submitted to the higher authority is that he return as that which he had started but not completed: that is, a monk. Perhaps he’s not at ease with the idea that the love of another individual has a potently and pleasure that over-rides all other goals and ambitions. As they say: “just lay back and enjoy the journey”. As someone almost famous once said “what makes us human is the ability to reason and love. Unfortunately, they are totally incompatible concepts and in the face of love we are totally unreasonable and any reasonable person would avoid love at all cost”

Surendra’s outlook on life has been subtly influenced by his rather limited contact with the outside world. I’m constantly surprised by the surprised look on his face when I mention something of ordinariness from my life yet totally alien to his. Homosexuality for one, traveling backward in a train for another. I still think Surendra is coming to grips with which of these conditions could come about in a Sri Lankan world and which has the most damaging effect on the human race.

Imagine you only learned your geography and culture of other countries from a joke book. That’s what it’s like when traveling with a guide. Travellers like to keep in good humor. They also enjoy keeping the driver happy and relaxed. This has its benefits I’m sure but unfortunately, every conversation must end with a joke or at least a laugh. Surendra probably thinks Australia is a theme park with lots of funny things happening; like Disneyland. In such an exchange people become stereotyped and geography becomes compressed. For example, it’s just as difficult to explain how far Darwin is from Sydney as it is describing Bob Cater. But it’s fun trying.

I, too, have a vague idea of the nature of Sri Lanka after my time with Surendra. One thing is bleeding obvious; everyone smiles, none less than Surendra. On the other side of that coin is the empathy for others less fortunate. As soon as Surendra comes across such a living thing he immediately stops smiling and gives a faint whimper, as if he feels the pain as well. This can happen with sick humans, dogs on the road, a camelion caught in traffic or a mosquito looking for food on his forearm. All are dealt with in the same caring manner and no one is hurt in the process. On the other hand, if it were left to me there would be one less dog, camelion, mosquito and I’d still be considering my options on the human.

Christine says Surendra doesn’t seem to worry or get agitated. I think he’s well practiced at concealing it. Or perhaps he allows his short-term memory loss to forget his recent troubles. I’d need to spend more time with my new found companion to answer that question. Perhaps we will meet again in another place, time or body. You never know. He might come back to me if he’s been a bad boy. That will certainly turn him off reincarnation a second time.

CHASING MOONBEAMS

Every child will imagine.
Cut their feet on a shell
Leave sand on the carpet
Lose a button, have messy hair.
Every child will say the wrong thing
Be late for dinner
Get fatter or thinner.
Lie, spy, cry, feel lonely
Be alone, throw a stone at the birds
Be scared of the dark
Laugh when someone falls
Ignore when someone calls
Want, whine, wag, wake too late
For school. No homework today
Get bad marks, rehearse for the play
Get the lines wrong, try singing along
Fall in love once or twice
Consider it nice. Kiss. skite, fight
Swear, dare, be dared, wonder about sex
Try things they shouldn't, do things they couldn't
Imagine what it would be like
To be someone else, no parents, leave home
Wet the bed, have a smoke and choke
Stay in bed all day. And dream.
Imagine growing up without all this.
Just imagine

THE MUSE'S CALL

THE MUSE’S CALL

The last of light is craved upon to fall

The shapely, longing limbs stretch to the tall

Smoothed skin as oil upon the water waits

My heart beats, sheds blood and lust anticipates

I hear her call, her song is as the Loralie

Her vision sees thus far, sees much more than I

Beyond the spreading of her naked limbs

She beckons men, and women, where fall begins

There is no pretence, no guilt, no idle play

This is the place where she will gladly lay

Command her wanting lust against the bitter winds

And watch the lonely man, again, fall into sin

The Muse is to dictate, none will be praised

Young men fall short within the loving haze

She is a whore, a tart, a lusting stone

And better men have risked, then left alone.

Don’t give the Muse a thought, her beauty tempts

None of us will last; remain exempt

She wants nothing from us but the tortured soul

Then disposes of the corpse up [on the cold

What is her epitaph for you and me?

Does she know or care or set any of us free?

More likely we will falter, step bravely to the fold

Be heard no more until the story told

One lonely night, one moment of despair

He felt the pain of loneliness, of lack of care

And in among the turmoil of it all

The was the faintness of the Muse’s call.

END OF DAYS

Growing Old

My thoughts are elsewhere, moving faster than I, with more grace and determination. The thoughts move in the past where a young man lingers and laughs at the body I now carry. I can move quietly in the market and remain unnoticed and anonymous to fresh thoughts of style and frivolity. I am unknown but to myself. Only I know what it is to live and grow old and even I am surprised at every turn. Those before me made efforts to explain and forewarn but they had only their own guide to suggest what might come of ageing. Like life, ageing must be experienced. It also must be understood. It is, ultimately the beginning of the end, at least one we can recognise. The reality of ageing is that we must eventually face the inevitable as it grows closer, knowing that what follows is as it was before: nothing.

As the bones creek and the joints ache, as the body processes falter and the brain loses its way, it is necessary to look back more than looking forward. Living brings us surprises. We cannot see into the future and even the present is uncomfortably brief. It is that past which we draw upon to give us hope. Reflection will provide purpose to what we have done. Disappointment will come from what we should have or could have done. Purpose and disappointment may be unnecessary in knowing that living is as it is and only our will to live provides us with motivation to do what we do, whatever that might have been. We cannot undo or relive. All we can do is to see the small wake we leave behind and know that we have made a difference no matter how minute and insignificant it might seem.

As I walk this way I know that I am one step closer to where I am going. I will not be surprised when it comes. I am content with what I have done.