journal d'une transition

742

unable to lie. And this morning Nar avenged himself on him, meanly, for having told me the truth, and I saw this sweet, gentle man weeping… … I yearn sometimes to belong to a community whose every interaction is conducive to individual progress, instead of confusing and evading while pretending to be more than it is… The fact of solidarity can act both ways: it can be quite destructive too… *4-8-1987, Auroville: There is Your Agenda. There is Your voice in the house every morning. And there is Your existence and Your Presence throughout everything… And there is this odd, strange, uneasy uncertainty and contradiction that has been laid on my life since I found You again… And together it seems to be threading a way into some unknown condition… … I went to watch that video film on Tibet, in that underground room at Bharat Nivas, this evening; it was tedious, stuffy, and I feel now such a stranger to all that natural warmth and ease which nearly everyone else seems to be sharing, despite all the issues and conflicts that occupy their minds, and tongues… And the film was snapping every few minutes… I didn’t know, though, the extent of the nasty, ignorant, devastating action of the Chinese against Tibet’s very identity, or of its deviousness… *5-8-1987, Auroville: It rained long and deep in the night and, at dawn, the garden was cool and filled with the scent of the earth… I am reading “The Mammoth Hunters”, part of the saga of the “Earth Children” by Jean M. Auel, such a beautiful and moving work and homage to evolution… *6-8-1987, Auroville: It rained violently for about two hours in the night, with spectacular thunder strokes… Looking at the garden this morning, I feel that energy again, to prune and to re-pot and to spread young plants, to re-bund and re-compost, to improve stone-patterns, as if suddenly it is all there and vibrant again… *7-8-1987, Auroville: Yesterday I sensed that I was just about to tip over into the wrong kind of solitude… I have always liked and appreciated solitude; it has always made sense to be living by myself, rather than with people, to have few social contacts rather than waste energy into useless talk and shallow relationships. But there is also a kind of solitude that a lot of people fall into, of a barren, pitiful kind, the kind which, when one encounters it in someone’s atmosphere, draws a feeling of pity and recoil, which almost has a smell; it is a sort of misery. This scared me! So I know that I must shift my attention; perhaps I must get back to painting, or writing… I have been looking too much at the consequences of the ostracism I have been subjected to, and letting myself go under its weight while vainly trying to understand its real causes. The pain of it has been very active lately: not being able to relate to my own child; not being allowed to contribute anything to the collective