Liestal, Basel ... FASNACHT!
Chienbäse
2.26.2023
The strange.
The awesome strange.
Disoriented. Awed.
The terror, chaos. Unleashing. Of what?
Sparks of embers bursting into the night sky. The silhouette of figures emerging out of flames, torches weighing down on their shoulders, the world crumbling and combusting in the most passionate fury around them. Grimaces and grins and triumph on their faces.
We love the burn.
Red, orange, yellow.
Smoke, ash.
Smell of wood, sound of crackling madness, delight, the chuckling of earth and air and fire. Unhinged, raw, natural law. Orderly chaos.
The necessity, of that animalistic creature within, the instincts we have to destroy, to set ablaze, to run wild.
And then, the power of a collective madness. The exhilaration of some bizarre celebration, ceremony. Of what?
I want to say, ‘you have to have been there’.
It’s not some movie scene.
A tradition. A ceremony. Something that calls alive the deepest unknowable desires or memories. Long before these roads, these houses. This land with its shape or form. Some past and future.
The setting of this small quaint medieval Swiss town. The iphones snapping pictures. The firefighters working in sync to contain the flames. Controlled chaos. The kids, women, adults all marching one after another. To where? The mountain of garbage and glittering confetti and crushed beer cans, broken glass bottles, the laughter, the screams, the smell of smoke from burning meat, sausage, tears from fumed eyes, ash, danger, feeling alive, living and dying, consuming, giving. Creating Light.
Light across the entire sky. Those fires. That dance.
The deliciousness of fury. Anarchy. Madness. The one day a year when one is ‘allowed’ to be anything, anyone.
The red pianist.
The awesome strange.
This is what I scribbled after the Sunday fire parade in Liestal, before the main carnival - the infamous “Fasnacht” in Basel begins on Monday morning at 4am when the bell strikes 4 times, the whole town turns dark, silent, and thousands of piccolos and drums begin to resonate through the cold, witching-hour night air as pipers and drummers in hauntingly grotesque masks march through the streets holding hand-painted lanterns. From there, 72 hours straight of nonstop deliciously dazzling madness. The bizarre, the strange, the fantastical. The chaos, the play, the mischief, the unleashing of freedom and bewilderment and awe.
There really is nothing in the world quite like it. A living fantasy? Wondrous nightmare? Utopia-dystopia? So many cultures around the world have their own carnivals, costume parties, rituals and celebrations and ceremonies that pay tribute the strange, the terrifying, the raw, uncanny, unknowable forces of … what? Nature? Human instincts? Greater forces of the universe?
What is it about the power that is untethered when we put on a mask, a costume? When we take on different identities, roles. When we can exist anonymously. How will we behave, act, interact? Infinitely curious, the dichotomy of dark and light, ‘evil’ or good. Throwing a mischievous prank, or handing out gifts and candy. Trick or treat, you never know. You stretch out your hand up towards these bizarre, terrifying, grinning or weeping or contorted masks, and your heart races, not knowing whether you’ll be hit next by a confetti bomb, or offered a bouquet of mimosa flowers. But regardless, you laugh. It’s all wondrously humoured. Bad or good fortune. It’s all one experience, one process. Giving and receiving as randomly as the spirit moves us. The playfulness and spontaneity and instinctive nature of it all. Paradoxes coexisting. Sublime.
It’s been such an incredible adventure in Europe, and it’s almost time to wrap up. I am still living fully in every moment with trust and commitment to my own promises and values. I grow increasingly confident in and assured of how to live within my own body and spirit, and share that living process as honesty, graciously, and passionately as I can.
Again, here are some scribbles for whoever you are reading this, hi stranger, hi friend, hi spirit of this universe, hi future Tong.
Till next time!
<3
Skye on fire
p.s. retracing some episodes in Italy (Pesaro, Urbino, Gradara) before getting to Basel stories
The sounds of kids laughing at the playground. How precious, really. This life is. Under an open sky. Breathing, coughing, lungs scraped raw by mucus attempting to get out. Breathing, deep fresh night air breaths. Trains, scooters. Back in another Vienna. Hungarian to German to English to Chinese. Infinite sound scapes. The powerful magic of a city park.
Proud.
Truly, you should be. Skye. Skye Skyeye Pianist etc.
Everyday has been lived felt repeated remembered clarified experienced honoured trusted. “In full.” Wouldn’t claim that. But actually, yes, quite fully, wondrously. I remember. The people, the words, sounds, images. They’re in my heart. Such clarity and faith and trust that I can articulate listen express increasingly truthfully, empowered by my own trust. Trust is that beautiful glowing confidence.10:54PM Overnight train to Bologna
What a bizarre experience.
Sitting out in the cold at the platform, munching on chestnuts and gulping pink dragonfruit juice. Listening to young girls huddled together giggling. The couple of teenagers shaking their head at the loud already drunk group of middle aged men rudely yelling and shoving their way through.
I gesture for her to get on the train first. She nods and smiles.
Open heart. Like open sesame. But pistachio.
Squeezing past carts of friends playing card games. 12-packs, boxes full of beer, candy, chips, spilling, sticky floor. The stoic boy with a hoodie printed with an American flag helping me lift up my suitcase, now listening to a message on his phone and giggling like a girl with a crush. The polite young late arriver apologizing and hanging up his jeans to dry on the coat hanger.
”Class 2”. Us.
VIP, sitting seats, standing room.
Who are you all, each, second class citizens. Where are you going. What is your story.
Who rides the overnight train?
Pop. Champagne on the train.
Champagne 1,2,3.
We’ve celebrated beautiful, continue to celebrate.
Pop a beer when you feel the movement.
Eat a funny desserty mango sticky rice wasabi flavoured poke bowl alone.
Bizarre. Curious. Powerful.
A mystery.
Just you try setting this bomb of me off.
Pop pop pop like fireworks.
6:34AM Train to Pesaro
Grazie.
An Italian cafe in Bologna open at 5:30AM, run by an Asian man. The instant breath of relief. Any corner of the world we wander to, you can find refuge at a ‘Chinese restaurant’. You’re allowed to bee. Be outsiders together.
Always begin with a smile?
How can our tiny gestures extend peace and kindness. Tone of voice, body language, gaze.
Thank you for the Americano.
Thank you for the place to find a brief moment of rest.
And then, the cheerful Italian greetings with the regulars, serving up their croissant and countertop espresso. Old man with thick stacks of newspaper. Middle-aged lady bursting out into laughter.In any universe, character, role we play, we can perhaps step by step, greeting by greeting create some kind of routine, community, belonging. Acceptance?
It’s the time. It does take time, for us to shift our perceptions, to let down our walls, to let go of prejudices, to build trust.
Some places take longer than others. But it is possible. Finding commonality. There’s always something. There’s always something that bonds and unites us, in our common shared humanity.
Come in and have a coffee.
And young boys on the overnight train, thank you for briefly being my wordless buddies. Thank you for a smile, a silent companion through a long night, thank you a kind farewell, a ‘have a pleasant rest of your journey!’
Kindness. Lovingkindness everywhere.
Feeling comfortable, at east, peaceful. Observing.
Sharing company. Sharing good food. Good wine. Conversation with, about, for good energy. The ability and clarity to better and better articulate these insights and growth and principles through repetition.
The beauty and calm and rootedness of when we are able to put to words our thoughts and feelings, our growth, our discoveries, what on earth is happening to us, around us. The skill and practice of not only observing that, but articulating it, so we can share, and celebrate a clear true deep connection.
“I couldn’t understand his words.”
Well, were they meant to be understood by you?
And how much of it is on you?
We have to meet each other halfway right?
Being able to see and hear. It’s a challenge. The responsibility is shared. How one communicates, how another receives. The balance has to fit just right for the truth of a connection to happen.
Communications. How infinitely elusive and curious.
If we trust, we will have such a wondrous adventure. We both lead and follow. We’re playing this chamber music together with the universe. We trust, the rhythm in each moment.
“Art is deeply spiritual. And we need spirituality to survive.”
“Hey.
Anytime your heart feels distant.
Renew.
Memorize and share something beautiful.”“Work with paradox. Love paradox.
We can be unified and pluralistic simultaneously.”“Our awareness is (one of) our most precious gifts”
Awareness is like a magnet.
There are hidden secrets in everything.
We must see without our eyes, hear without our ears, know without our intellect. If we are able to penetrate the surface of appearances, we will discover the mysteries.
(The upside down) <3.
Experience the experience.
Experience our own process.Hidden secrets, puzzles, everywhere.
Challenge our sense of reality.
Challenge our preconceptions of our own ‘reality’ based on our capacity and lived experiences.
Expand that capacity.Be an openhearted trusting playful seriously lighthearted skeptic.
Somedays.
Somedays be a hopeless romantic. Derp and be strange.
“We are just living one of infinite stories”
Something is precious because we are aware of its value.
Feelings and sensations are intensified where and when we give them attention.
Many experiences with inanimate objects involve mystical interactions. Hence, we often refer to the ‘personality’ or ‘voice’ or ‘temperament’ of an instrument. The mood of a violin or piano. They’re alive.
”Art transcends the objective world and enters a mystical realm that is inexplicable.”
“Grace.
Being overwhelmed by a strange light that penetrates your consciousness.”Contemplate our continuous process of opening. Right here, right now. Always with us. Each breath we draw is connected to the breath of the universe. Sacred breath. There is no seperation.
Clear your priorities.
Inner light of awareness will illuminate.
Perception of reality will steadily shift.
“On our spiritual path, either through a brilliant flash of insight or in the slow, steady progress of continuous practice, we gain wisdom - not intellectual knowledge, but a deep knowing - inexplicable, indescribable, exquisite beyond imagination.”
Hi. I am Tong-ing.
Awe leads to wisdom.
Duality. Multiplicity. Singularity. Infinite interpretations of secrets, puzzles, messages, or just random chaos? Age-old questions. But why not? It means something, it has meaning, it is special and meaningful because we give it a meaning. Name. Reason. A noticing, awareness, attention.
Trust and vulnerability. Two sides of the same coin. We need trust to be vulnerable. We need to surrender to trust.
Discovery.
Do we have to be seeking to discover?
Sometimes we don’t really know what we’re creating until it has taken its own shape, right? So does art always need a clear intention at the beginning? Or is simply the desire to create enough?
Turning oil stains into drawings.
Circles into planets.
Layer on layer.
Like me, an onion.
Mysterious ‘creative process’.
Oh, this 20-years-old boy.
”I’m so fucking excited to see the world you know! Wow! I love Canadians! Hey, what’s your name? Let me get your Instagram.”
All the curiosity, the wonder, energy, naivety, the bubble chaos.
And the slighty withdrawn, worn 36-years-old girl, stranger on the train, laughing politely to humour such a character.
How curious, each traveller, writing their own stories. And we catch just a glimpse.
8:23AM Train to Basel
Recharged.
Fulfilled.
Grateful.
Still, more grounded. Root to rise.
The constant travel is no longer consuming me, not ‘burning me out’. Not alienating. I’m not exhausted, empty, down, pining for home. I have been resting and enjoying and living in each of these vastly different moments. Infinitely grateful. For the time. The space. A morning starting with my own breakfast, journaling, yoga, meeting at the piazza - ‘bonjourno!” for a big hug and picking up the day’s pastries for the breakfast club with freshly squeezed juice and coffee. Roadtrip to the war memorial - finding moments where washes of that emotion, that infinite connectedness, mystical one breath with life and memory. Connection through the inscriptions, the olive branches, the white pink patches of tiny flowers blooming under soft rays of sunlight. Peace against backdrop of freeway traffic. It could be war.
The castle, the views of countryside rolling hills. Sharing glimmering smiles. The stunning panoramic drive up to a most spectacular lunch with spectacular wine. Squid ink pasta, sea urchin pasta. The joy of learning, sharing, appreciating food.
And then, the afternoon peace on the beach. Sea tranquility. Awing, underlining phrases in the book. Having time to feed body and brain. Rewriting quotes. Making more space by reflecting, archiving, knowing, remembering, articulating the process of each experience. That is groundedness.
These really are the most beautiful days.
Piadina. Classique. Prosecco. Star Trek. Warmth of company. Blessed, blessed, blessed.
You are still writing and sharing.
Why, with whom?
Be wise in who you choose to share with.
”There is no giver without receiver.” Really?
Trust is not reckless.
Caution is not weakness or fear.
Courage is not blind.
Open heart but open wise.Choose those who are ready to receive.
It’s okay. Keep writing. Send them somewhere.
If people don’t receive the moments, send them somewhere else.
Trust, trust, trust.
Someday, somewhere.
Today’s priority: say hi to the forest.
When there’s so much to share about a story that it’s overwhelming, frustrating to try to begin, find the patience. Take silence, take time. Think, reflect, organize. Remember. Smile. Begin anywhere.
Remember this feeling.
Remember this feeling and why you will chose to come back.
Heart and spirit first.
Take time to say hello.
You have the time to say hello.
Do one thing a day that disarms someone.
This place is so curious with the memories and images it allows us to recall.
A scrawny girl sprinting across the forest, panting.
Later, her catching up to a taller woman, sister, mother perhaps, still panting, now laughing, stretching, together. “I beat you”. Perhaps.
And all of a sudden, we are back on 106 street, winter in Edmonton. McDougall. One block, 3 laps. Dad and I. Jogging side by side. Snot and mucus and panting. And then, the final dash, the sprinting ahead. The final push.
”I beat you.” Champion, joy, love.
And now, I see from behind both those figures. The exhausted warmth, the tenderness, pride, nurturing. The time, the simple act of doing something together. How curiously they become precious moments. Thank you. Thank you for running with me.
It’s incredible how ‘simple’ practices, routines, tasks hone our beings.
Out of practice. I’m out of practice. Clumsy. Ungraceful. Derpy.
So, do we laugh or curse at the incompetence? Something we used to be able to do but now stumble over.Like, simply making a pancake. The choreography not as smooth, not as meditative, the coffee foamer not cooperating, the sequence of seamless transitions disrupted, the efficiency in the steps of operation all tangled. Little deviations adding up. Even just missing 4 days of cooking can change so much.
Perhaps it’s just one of ‘those days.’
When a series of ‘misfortunes’ occur, how do we stand up to meet the occasion? Or react? The slow motion of paper coffee cup flying out of my hands, bouncing into the train wall, a moment of horror or attempt to still somehow catch the floating black liquid and suck the back into the cup. And then, plop. Walking all the way back to get a half refill. Later, slicing hard and and deep into my thumb. Bloody kiwi, bloody yellow backpack. Frickin bloody tea, blood everywhere.But I still did it, am doing it. Writing, sharing, sharing company and honest thoughts. Taking time to patiently communicate. I am still proud. Welcome home. Derpy Skye. You’re doing well.
No drama. You chose this.
Calm within chaos.
How you came to be.
Identity defined by who and what you love.
”Art that builds a bridge. Language, image, music combine to make an encounter possible.”
Psychic longing.
8:22AM Binningen
The intense desire to reach people.
To connect with strangers.
Artists, humans, everywhere.
We are Tricksters. We are craftsmen, we are dreamers. We subvert, disrupt, and make bridges, we facilitate the strangest most wondrous encounters.
We make laugh and cry. And everything indistinguishable in between.
There are actually infinite souls out there who understand us. Before and after us, and now. Sentiments and affirmations constantly exchanged and shared with every breath, through infinite mediums. We already are connected to everything.
It’s so fun to catch an idea.
Like discovering a treasure left by someone sometime just because you’re open to receiving, wondering, wandering, not necessarily looking for that specific unknowable thing, but looking nonetheless.
Again, the art of listening versus hearing.
Everyone is busy.
Steal a smile. Steal an emotion. Out of love or selfishness? “Altruistic stealing.” “Saviour mentality.” It’s not that we want to control or change anyone. We just want to bridge and share, especially that which we love so passionately. And naturally, our passion will infect one another. We feed together and the bounty multiplies. Somehow.
This is a beautiful time.
What sublime silence.
4:05PM
Mischief. And love.
Trick, and then treat.
The prankster in us all.
Being good humoured when misfortune befalls us, and then, being humble when receiving a gift.The joy, the play here at the carnival.
Little boys who run up behind me and dump a whole bucket of black confetti on my head. I laugh and take cover, too late. Confetti all down my hood, back, stuck in my clothes, hair, everywhere. I turn to walk on, and they tap my arm. Here. They hand me a piece of candy, grinning. Isn’t that a wonderful reflection of life. Black confetti or candy. You never know what you’re gonna get. All so cute, so endearing.
This beautiful play.
Kids allowed to be, be silly, be mischievous, be random, tricksters, pranksters. Play jokes. Give presents and gifts. Laughing, screaming, playing, fighting, loving. The joy, the adventure. The beauty of chaos and freedom.
The moment of exchange.
Joy on the faces of the givers. Delight on the faces of the receivers.
The outstretched hands, the moment of contact. The touch. Candy passed from one small palm to another. Hands in confetti bags ready to pick the next victim to drop the next bomb on. Asking, receiving, rejecting. Who receives a gift and who doesn’t? Playing luck of the draw. Playing with fortune. Random luck and chance. Collisions. Glitter. Strange magic.
March 1, 2023
7:53AM Binningen
Colourful confetti falling everywhere. Falling out of everywhere. Traces of rainbow bombs, black bombs, in every corner, nook. Shimmering and glittering.
This is a phenomenon. Some self-contained utopia-dystopia-society-community, community? Herd? Some wildly fascinating window into the human condition and its unknowable paradoxical desires.
Being a collective, yet also expressing oneself in all sizes of smaller groups - cliques. Each group its own uniform or non-uniform. Its own songs, yet marching in the same space. Different rhythms, coexisting. Some unspoken contract to make way for each other, to respect the shared space, which ever direction one goes, under some pact to celebrate together. As one.
Again, this oneness. Masks. No one is judged. The freedom. Not to squash diversity. Quite the opposite. But having no seperation. The sky earth entire town resonating with countless marches charging simultaneously in circles, on and on.
And why?
Why does the herd ‘blindly’ follow the insistent, incessant drum beat? Almost automatically, in a trance, on auto-pilot, marching up and down the alley in sync with the sound of the pipes, following the conductor’s baton, not even aware of where they’re going. Just somehow lulled by this mysterious force. The eeriness in that. The strange power of some kind of spiritual procession. The terrifying draw of the force of the masses.
Like minions? Soldiers? Pawns? They could be marching to their graves. But together, row after row, in rhythm, some kind of kinship, companionship, it all feels somehow mindlessly meaningful, purposeful, at ease. Part of something greater. Who knows what. Who cares what. Some bizarre ‘order’.
The awesome terror. Unknowst.
Some kind of trust or foolishness? Charging to our destiny. In circles.
The strange is necessary for magic.
Seriously, play.
March 2, 2023
7:53AM Binningen
Tiny outstretched hands.
Asking, giving, begging? The joy of receiving, the thrill of offering. Each interaction, exchange, some risk. Sometimes rewarded, sometimes punished. Why? Who’s to know? There’s really no balance, no ‘fairness’. Trick or treat. A flower or a bomb. Which will you get? Who’s to say? Which stranger in mask is feeling generous? Which maleficent?
Millions of shifting moods. Anything goes.
And no feelings hurt. Or less so. Who gets loved by randomness? Who has the draw of luck?
What a curious phenomenon this carnival has been. Observing the inexhaustible variety of groups marching through the entire town. The fascinating costumes, grotesque masks, the pounding vibrations of drums, blaring brass, piercing piccolos.
Play. Seriously, play.
These instincts are for survival. For living. For giving spice and glamour and awe to living.
The thrill of not needing to understand. Why, how, what does this or that mean? Freedom from reasoning, from logic, from elegance, grace, beauty - yet there is some kind of beauty to the chaos, madness, garbage and confetti and exploding blood oranges piling inches high on the streets.
People don’t push or shove or rush here though.
Even mini utopia-dystopias have their unique unspoken codes, rules, expectations, respect, kindness?
Ripple effects.
The girl who nervously runs up to hand us candy. Eyes gleaming with anticipation, hope, fear. And when we accept the gift, the happy sigh of relief, the eyes bursting with joy and pride.
Look, someone acknowledged your love. Someone accepted your open heart. Fulling knowing both sides could have been hurt.
The blessedness of open hearts, being given, being received.
Let’s try again and again.
