The beach of Kuta

The beach, the mud and the dogs


It’s the end of a tropical day. The heat is silently hanging over the beach of Kuta. No wind, no change of heat, no movement of the damp, sticky air. The rainy season is over,but


the rain is late, maybe lost. The sky is clouded all over and calm, enveloping dreams, hidden horrors and showers that won’t come. People are strolling slowly along the sea, free and lazy as the unmoving clouds.  It’s low tide, the beach broad and the sand wet. The people might almost touch the low hanging sky by hand and visit heaven for a moment, but their feet are too heavy, loaded with wet sand. They cannot overcome gravity, if they want to remain mortals and enjoy life on earth. Naturally, they all want to be saints forever like the dogs that run unleashed across the sandy beach, free for a short while. The on rolling surf lines  the sea as a horizon and approaching the beach causes a tremendous, deafening sound. I think to hear the thunder from far, but I don’t see any flash. There is no lightning, just the thunderous beat of the surf on the beach. Outside the present,  it’s all illusion.  Men, women and children lie on the dark sand and are waiting for the upcoming wave lapping their body. They roll on, back and forward, their bodies all wet sand, mud of the sea.  Swimming on the spot, grabbing the mud, they stay where they are and sink helplessly into the sand. They play and fight, trying to become sandy mud, substantial stuff, their hands full of grains. Smearing mud all over the body, they want to become sand, beach, basic material, mud. Shaping the mud by their body and its contour, its form, they bring the mud alive, creating themselves anew and reaching for another soul - in vain.  Their soul will be made of sand, unfixed and loose, volatile and heavy at the same time, unable getting any substance or permanence. They try again and again, practicing the art of illusions, shaping  the dampness in all kind of clouds and fog floating above the sea. The dogs don't need the mud or illusions, they run. Finally, the sea will free the people, wash them all over, clean their bodies and give them back. It is an endless  game of the sea and the beach, of the people and their muddy alter ego. It’s a play of  temporary models, momentary images of people and  running dogs. The tide will wash the imprints and the traces when the people are already at home, dreaming of the mud and the sea. And the dogs will still run around, unleashed and unaware of illusions - wherever.