These are my new Bosworth shadow spindles, so called by Sheila Bosworth when we had the conversation the other day. They’re made by Jonathan Bosworth of Journey Wheel. The name shadow spindle came up when I mentioned these would look so good displayed in a glass case among my Balinese and Javanese artefacts. Shadow is after the Art of Indonesian Shadow Puppet called Wayang Kulit. Below I have included an excerpt of my meanderings and writing on Ruminating Java (an Indonesian island close and dear to my heart) to add the spice to the evolution of these spindles.
My husband took this picture of me in Bali, Indonesia in December of 1999 at the Mother Temple in Besakih; I was 23 then
I looked into the glass, peeking curiously like an innocent little girl. I was given a beautiful flower, which I cherish every single day. When the sun rises and I open my sleepy eyes, I see my flower blooming.
I hold on to vivid beautiful childhood dreams. I was in a sarong[1], with the hibiscus resting on top of my ear adding the beauty and sweetness to my exotic soft tanned-skin face. I carved a smile, one that would remind you of fresh yellow chrysanthemums and pure white water lilies. My eyes stared at you with a touch of innocence yet telling you I want to go out and play in the garden with the birds and the butterflies. You would be imagining me in a lush green paddy field in the terraces of Java[2] but in true fact I was sitting right in the middle of Shenton Way, a part of Singapore, where financial business transactions come busy everyday.
My feet sent me on a journey, undaunted by the hot sun, stepping firmly onto the ground in an assuming manner – very delicate yet strong. My bones followed the rhythm, my flesh was intact, and my muscles worked through it. It was like walking through the rice fields stepping onto the muddy earth, floating yet firmly planted onto the lucid ground. My eyes shifted from left to right, and right to left. My feet were performing with my eyes, in conversation with my limbs and bones, and flesh and muscles and skin. Something moved inside me, oozing through every pore of my skin. It breathes.
Everything was shining – transparent and clear but still sane. This is Singapore. Everywhere it was moving, shifting, uncertain but controlled, chaotic but calm, messy yet serene. Nothing, not even the echoes of the boisterous laughter from the group of colonial-looking white expatriates complete with their formal ties and suits could mess up my strong movements, echoing, overlapping their very authentic hoarse deep voices. My nerves laughed at them in return for vengeance for trying to overpower my rumination, sentiment and reverie of my surroundings within myself. Why did my feet walk away? Why did my eyes postulate? Inside, my guts were churning and my intestines scampering in turmoil yet not in anarchy. I was at the crossroads, wanting to leave yet lingering with hate and longing. Contradicting you say, but actually in harmony, as harmonious as those rice fields.
Breathtaking Terraced Rice Fields in Ubud, Bali
I stopped at the junction between Saint Andrew’s Cathedral and City Hall. I looked around in bereavement. My feet were still walking. That movement continued leaving my body, the image spinning in my intestines, my heart, my lungs, and my esophagus, to my throat. I was at the crossroads, left with a picture of fast moving people of different colors. I could still see my feet walking off away from me, wanting to disappear but was still in sight.
I left – Singapore and Java, the skyscrapers and the paddy fields.
Small town hardly polished tall buildings, very concrete, nothing like Singapore – definitely far from Java. But inside me, Singapore is near and Java relentlessly dear. My dreams traveled to Los Angeles passing through Del Mar to Point Loma, La Jolla then it stopped at Imperial Beach.
I played like a nymph in the Garden of Eden, clasping my palms together and making butterfly movements with it as I beheld the image of the shadow of my fingers against the wall. The moonlight shone to give the wayang[3] its life. I fell in love with Java in San Diego, in a cozy apartment at Imperial Beach. I was as happy as a lark. I wished the moon would not go away and the night stay ever so young accompanying my romance with the light and darkness of mystic Java.
The gypsy lady in front of the Museum of Man at Balboa Park reminded me of the shaman in Solo[4]. Geared with her tarot cards under a pretty looking umbrella, I observed her stealthily from a distance. She seemed to have that power of sense, yet not as powerful and sacred like that of the shaman back in the entrancing villages in Indonesia. She turned and caught me unaware and gave me a smile I could never forget – charismatic, bewitching and to some extent enticing.
I met a ‘shaman’ in San Diego. The one not quite like the Asian long-haired, long finger-nailed men in primitive villages deep in Solo, but the fairy-godmother version like in those fairy tales that I was fed with before I rest to sleep when I was only about four. I gave her a shy glance, a girlish tender look, as I shunned away from her in apprehension. I walked away and felt the East wind stroking my cheeks, frolicking around me like old times. I turned back and looked at the gypsy woman, she, still smiling with a sharp presence with an attempt to decode me humming away the graceful tunes of Bengawan Solo[5].
I was at the Santa Fe Station watching the train depart at accelerating speed. I wished I had the power to do so. I wished I had been a train, leaving and returning. I toddled along the streets and shuffled my way to the Emerald Plaza. I was in front of C Street diagonally opposite the San Diego County Courthouse and Jail building. I wonder how it feels like to be in prison, trapped in the middle of four walls and being denied of your own right to freedom. Freedom. What does it mean to me? I went away just to reassure myself that I had the freedom, to confront my insecurities and deny my own weaknesses. My greatest weakness is being lonely and my greatest strength is being alone.
My sister’s words caroused in my ears, “You are an escapist, Arianie.” I scoffed at them wanting to hear no more but they still gamboled merrily distracting me from my surroundings. I realized suddenly that I was in downtown San Diego, a place, which replicates the Lion City[6], maybe part of Shenton Way. Tall buildings, polished glass walls, big shopping malls. The only difference was that the people were not moving as fast as it had been back in Singapore. It was not as chaotic. It was tranquil and slow-paced. I suddenly felt estranged in this place. I felt lonely, alone, cold, and hungry. What was I doing there really?
Everywhere I go I carry within myself this feeling of uneasiness. It is like a nightmare. It is my worst enemy. I sobbed. I looked away. Why was I afraid? I realized that I was not running away from anything else but from this fear within myself.
I stood, looking far at the Pacific Ocean. I had had really wished I could have met the whales. It was summer time. The officer at the National Park at Point Loma mentioned that the whales only come in during winter. I was disappointed. Was it bad karma? I returned back to the waters and tried to capture the vast ocean with my tired eyes – God’s creation – the ocean, the sky and the good earth – extremely exquisite, rich and refined. The Earth – a haven for all mortals, a place of refuge for little earthlings called Homo sapiens, another of God’s creations. I am one of them. The good earth is where I come from and the good earth is where I will return to. My body, my skin, my bones, my flesh are nothing but soil.
A picture speaks a thousand words. Those were yesterday’s memories. Where am I heading for now? Life is like a dream. It’s like always reminiscing the past. For me, today is always yesterday and yesterday’s memories linger, always lurking behind me.
I want to stay, to linger like a butterfly, fresh from its cocoon of yesterday’s wrinkled skin. Will I remember the skin? The skin, which brought me to life, more than just living but holding on and finding the meaning of each existence, each time, each breath.
Ruminating Java, I wrote a poem – the first poem written for the people whom I have once loved but forgotten:
Here I am where I was once before,
full of hope, and dreams for my future,
curious about the world, and its inhabitants.
I am like a caterpillar.
I am not ashamed when I was stripped off my skin,
weaving a cocoon for my pupa.
I was not confused when I rested myself in that silky shell,
where all my fantasies and thoughts were unraveled.
And I will not regret following my heart
and its intense desires,
because one day I will triumph all the past –
Shadows of the wayang of my life
And be that beautiful butterfly emerged from yesterday’s wrinkled skin.
Does it always rain there in your heart? Or does the sun sometimes come in and sneak into the darkest walls of your loneliness? Sometimes I need the rain in my heart, and sometimes I yearn the sun to come into my garden of hopes and dreams? What are my hopes and dreams? Are they still there in my garden of tomorrows? Were they left behind in joys of yesterdays? Will you be the sunshine in my garden? Can you be the rain in my heart? Sometimes I wait for the rain to come. At other times, I wait for the sun to shine in my garden. I am still hoping for the rain and sun to creep into my heart and linger in my garden and unite as one. Will that day come even if I have to wait a thousand years?
Even when rainy days come, I still have the good earth to look forward to. I want to hear the croaking sounds of the frogs amongst the water lilies and the gushing rain bringing to life the sounds of mother earth, as I take a deep breath enjoying the fresh morning dew of Java.
But I do realize that I am nothing but a vessel, an ancient symbol of displacement. Wherever I go, I am like a migrant. I become the container of the place I am in. I create the history and fiction. I become the stage for my predicament and my journey. I move with it. I am it.
[1] A piece of wrap around cloth with intricate batik design
[2] An island in Indonesia
[3] Shadow world; setting for shadow puppet drama, an ancient art form in Java, Indonesia
[4] A town in Java
[5] An Indonesian piece of music about a river in the town of Solo, in Java
[6] Lion City is another name for Singapore