My mind hasn't been molded, really truly molded in quite some time. I feel as if the older we get so too does the clay go dry and harden like ceramics. But here in Bali there's always a sweat on the brow or a salt water wave breaking over it, and in that way maybe the clay stays moist and a little malleable, and a strong hand can still change its ways, still make a firm impression. It has to be firm though because, after all, I'm not so young anymore.
The athletes on TV and the stars in the magazines are now younger than I am, some of them anyways. There's no longer a dream to be them, only a will to see them succeed, or I guess crash and burn depending on the player and the team.
Fuckin' Steve. These sports metaphors are all a product of his coffee, vodka, and Bin Tang high for the Dodger playoffs. Game 1 in Atlanta, but here in Bali it's not yet 11:00 in the morning. Still, he spats off play-by-plays from his phone with a crack happy whoop and a holler and a smile because the Dodgers are up in the 7th. Mike's drinking a Bin Tang with him and Nate's on his fourth cup of coffee for the day and's already been surfing (it was shitty 3 ft. Ulus), and he's having his second breakfast to go with my first, and we're all set here at one of the square tables out front at Jiwa Juice.
I drink my tea and the glass of orange with slow deliberate swallows, trying to saturate the very top of my throat and the very back of my nasal passage because it has that dry sickly feeling I assume is from all the salt water getting way, way up there last time I surfed. The Lucky Strikes I bought last night surely didn't help any though, because the phlegm my nose is flushing out isn't clear anymore.
Whatever, last night was a whirlwind of seafood BBQ and Bin Tangs and cigarettes and reggae music in Bingin and Polish girls, California girls, and Brazilian girls. And in the wind of it all I got kicked out alone and biked home and nearly finished the Alchemist before I tried to sleep, through restless legs and midnight squats, and tossing and turning and pained breathing, and a sweat on my brow and my neck. Sweat from all pores and the corners of my eyes. A wet mind, most impressionable it's beginning to seem when under distress or duress or both, and with a strong hand like the Alchemist's I feel like I can turn to wind as well or at least wish I could feverishly so I could blow across the sea to see sweet Caroline. And I wondered where exactly the treasure was.
I finished in the morning in bed and found out. It wasn't at the end of it, but way back at the very beginning. And at that there's her smile and a long look in her eyes and a kiss. And bacon pancakes.
Maktub.
