Another writing circle, another opportunity to exercise those Balinized brain muscles. You just need to show up, sit down (or in my case, stand at an improvised dais), pull out paper or laptop and watch as our collective creative juicers get a workout. Voila, one excerpt from yesterday’s rooftop gathering (prompt is italicized):
In the middle of the night, I rolled over and heard a gushy crunch. Was I dreaming or did I just crush a gecko? Oh damn, it was the latter, a poor little cecak that had merely searched for slumber amidst my sheets. Damn, I snapped, leaping out of my bed, the sheets tangling themselves around my waist and legs.
I love those little creatures, and observe with great interest their early morning antics on my window frames and walls. But always from a distance, from the comfort of my bed.
But what was this? A little buddy had sought refuge in my bed, thinking it was harmless to tuck in where it was warm and cozy. And now I’d gone and smashed him to bits! Pity the poor little gecko, what would papa tokay say when he didn’t return to his daytime post under the eaves?
I wavered. What, I wondered, to I do with a gecko found dead in my bed? Call 9-1-1? Wait until Nyoman wakes up and ask her if I need to build a funerary tower and initiate a cremation ceremony? Surely the gods are watching when any living being’s life is snuffed out (including the palm-sized vulnerable gecko), so what to do?
Maybe the best strategy is not to utter a word about it to anyone, just wrap it up and release it to the jungle – let it be feasted upon by creatures of the day.
But then I wake up and the gecko is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he slinked away during my reverie, saved perhaps by his brethren, by the legions of geckos that slither, traipse and scatter around my room…