Easter Sunday night began with a chill glass of beer and a chat with a young lady from some European country who was working for an NGO and living the dream of freedom…travelling around the world.
Her name is immensely forgettable for her demure defaulted when it came to her partiality for yet another drink. The night ended like a cliché…she went her ways and I went mine – to my home, a house on a corner with a rice field view in front and a cemetery-cremation ground bringing up the rear… No man’s land… A perfect setting for a writer living alone and eking out a living attempting to create pictures with words… the phases and phrases merging into a stream of thought for food.
That night I lay in bed remembering my son and recalling the many years we spent together and then with a sigh boarded the train for Neverland.
Morning brought with it the crowing of the cockerel and the knock on the door of the pembantu (domestic help) who had arrived to clean my home.
I got up and with a hot cup of Kopi Bali sat in the garden throwing bread crumbs into the fish pond.
Hours later when the house began churning out the sounds of the day I realised my camera, cell phones and laptop had been stolen by a member of the light finger fraternity. Over four years of memories had been stolen, pictures, words and messages carefully saved on my laptop.
For a while I sat next to the pond and gazed at the fish. Futility of possessions became apparent as I watched the petals of the last of the lotus flowers drooping towards the water… the pointlessness of cataloguing one’s existence for posterity. Everything withers and dies and is forgotten. So why clutch onto images and words as if they are going to save one from drowning in the currents of the daily drudgery of living?
Reluctantly I visited the local police station and reported the matter. And the investigations have begun.
A day later I sit at an Internet café attempting to reconnect with the world. A vain effort to imagine all is well. But this is not true. Someone has stolen my memories and is probably erasing them as I speak. They are gone, returning to the ether from whence they came.
What shall I speak of now? What shall I do now? Create new memories? Buy them? Or steal them from someone else?
I doubt I would do any of the above. Instead I shall walk the walk, wherever it may take me for now I am a soul that has no memories and hence no baggage to carry.
I am free.