Dreaming of Bohemia

“All the leaves are brown…
And the sky is grey…”


The melody resonates over and over in my mind as I look up and notice the skies are actually grey… depressing grey. California Dreaming, indeed… thanks Mamas and Papas. I’d take any dry Sunny-fornia over this place. “Miserable f*ckin weather,” I mutter, chewing and spitting out the words.


“Walked into a church…
I passed along the way…”


So I walk into the first church that comes into view. Smallish, nice, clean… Catholic? Not sure, but I feel the need to walk into something, anything…


I notice the confession booth. And why not? – I think to myself. I’ve seen it done countless times in movies, on TV… read it in books too. So it’s Catholic, I conclude in my own merry mind. I venture in, fearlessly, as if drunk on a late afternoon.


“Father, it’s been 2 weeks since my last blog entry.”


“You mean ‘confession’, my son?” says Father O’Reilly, an affable old gent, servant of God, with a soft Irish lilt.


“No, Father. I mean blogging. You know, writing an entry… on my blog page. Something people will enjoy; something witty, if possible.”


I can see him scratching his head behind the obfuscated screen. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”


“Umm… no, not really.”


“So what are you, my son? A Protestant? Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, Lutheran? A Mormon, Adventist? Or perhaps Buddhist, Taoist, Shintoist, Hindu? Rosicrucian?”


“But Father,” I protest. “Does it matter? I just want to love God!”


He laughs heartily. “I see you’ve been reading ‘The Life of Pi’. Good one, my son… good one!”


I laugh with him. I’m starting to like Father O’Reilly. I can almost see him chugging a pint of Guinness at the corner bar, looking up at the high corner TV screen, cheering every soccer game and boxing match.


“I don’t really know why I’m here, Father. I was humming ‘California Dreaming’ in my mind, and next thing you know… I’m here.”


“OK, fair enough. Not too busy today, so why not? By the way, my son, I don’t really like the cold.”


“Huh? Come again?”


“You know… the song. It says the preacher likes the cold. Well… I don’t. I hate the cold. I hate dentists and I hate the cold. Well… I don’t hate dentists, per say… just going to one. I don’t mind if they come to me.”


“I understand….”


“So down to business… why are you here, my son? What do you want to tell me?”


“I need a burst of Bohemia, Father.” There… it’s off my chest. That felt good.


“So… what exactly does that mean? Is it something dark and morbid, like that Freddie Mercury song? Or is it something beatnik, like the bongo thumping free spirits of the 60’s?”


“Not exactly, Father. More like Hemingway, Picasso, Gertrude Stein… in Paris.”


His eyes lit up. Now he understood. “Ah… yes. Zola, Flaubert, Maugham…in Paris.”


“Yes, yes,” I cried with excitement. “Like Capote, Warhol, Kerouac in New York…”


“Ok, I get it,” he said, nodding slowly, savoring the images in his head. “A gathering place… a place to belong in the evenings, to stimulate the soul, to relieve boredom, to drink and dine and uncork another topic of conversation… a sanctuary.”


“Bingo, dear Father! Bingo-issimo! Uber bingo. Le grand bingo!”


“Ok, ok… dear child. Easy now. Don’t wet your pants. I get it.”


If I was a dog, I would’ve wagged my tail furiously, like a crazy compass.


“Father… I dream of Bohemia… my version of Bohemia. I’m sure there are lots of souls out there who crave the same thing. Not the incessant crowded earsplitting thumping of night clubs. Not the stale and stolid hushed atmosphere of restaurants and cafes. I’m talking about those places you often read about in novels… a place where affable people gather in the evenings, with a light heart and comfort, to talk about the latest work of fiction, about films, about philosophy and politics and history, about love affairs and heartaches, about food and travel, about dreams… yes, dreams…”


“About life, in other words…” I could see him smiling behind that thin screen. “About life, my son…”


“Yes, Father! About life… and then the whole thing would become part of one’s life as well. It would be a component of life.”


“A soothing component…”


“But how do I get one started, Father? How does one go about it?”


“Why ask me? Do I look like a wino Bohemian to you? How should I know?”


“Err… I see your point. I just thought that, you know, wise old men like you would…”


Father O’Reilly burst out laughing. “Wise old men, eh? So you rank me in the same league as those folk who brought frankincense and myrrh to baby Jesus? Given my religion, I’ll construe that as a bit of a compliment… but I’m stretching it, I’ll let you know.”


“Cheers, Father… thanks heaps…”


“So… tell me about this blog thing. What kind of things does one talk about?”


“Umm, lots of things, Father. Any topic, really. There’s lots of different personalities with lots of issues, lots of joys, angers, anxieties, problems… sometimes it’s just a practice of unburdening whatever’s on your mind.” I juggled in my mind the images of people I encountered through blogging. People I hadn’t actually met (physically that is) but I felt I somehow knew, through their writing. Courageous people, compassionate people, philosophical people, friendly people, intelligent people, uninhibited people. It is through the enlightening medium of the internet that one realizes all people are interesting, that everyone has a story to tell. Is this the way God looks at us, I wondered?


“So give me one example.”


“Let’s see… there was one recently by a nice lady asking whether it made sense for an older woman to engage in an amorous relationship with a younger guy.”


“Ah… interesting. So did you comment on it?”


“Well, yes… I said it might make sense for an older man but perhaps not with a younger man… like say, someone still in their twenties.”


“That’s not really fair now, is it?” I could see Father O’Reilly lifting an eye brow quizzically.


“Meaning what?” I asked. Confessions couldn’t usually be this interesting, could it? – I wondered. Maybe I’d been missing out all these years.


“I mean… son… what did you think of yourself when you were in your twenties?”


“I… I thought I was hot sh*t... I guess.” Did I push the limits here? Did I sacrifice the good priest’s temperament for the sake of brutal honesty? Did I break the decorum of a confession booth? His reaction soon took care of that.


He burst out in joyous laughter. “Precisely, my son… precisely. It is the age to enjoy unblemished self-confidence. So why tamper with that? In the immortal words of Doris Day, ‘Que Sera Sera’ right?”


“I see your point…”


“So were you, my son? Were you ‘some hot sh*t’, as you so graphically describe?”


“Of course not, Father…not in retrospect…”


He laughed some more and smiled at me. It was a soothing gentle smile, with the kind twinkle in his eyes gleaming through the porous partition.”


“Some other youngster left comments that younger men make better lovers. What’s your opinion on that, Father?” Again, maybe I was pushing the envelope.


“Well… I may not enjoy orgasmic interludes every night, but I bask in His love all day and night. So which would I prefer; an hour a day of making love to some sizzling vixen or 24 hours of loving Jesus?”


“Umm… Father. I think we’re getting a bit too religious for a simple question on sex.”


“So what did you expect? You walk into a church and expect me to trumpet the virtues of making love to beautiful women? If you walk into a book store, my son, you’re not going to order filet mignon.”


Simple and effective; Father O’Reilly was a class act, albeit a bit sarcastic. A bit of Monty Python in his TV diet, I suspected.


“So… is this lady hot?” he asked. The question stunned me for a second.


“Who? You mean the person who posed the blog question?”


“Who else? We’re not talking about last week’s Miss Universe pageant now, are we? If we are, I think Miss Venezuela was hot, but that’s just me…”


“I can’t believe you’re asking me this, Father. But, anyway, I’ll let you be the judge of that. She posts her photos on her blog pages. She showed several poses of herself kissing nice looking young men on their cheeks, so I teased her that she was a bit ‘gregarious’ and then she snapped back in protest. We even parried a few times on someone else’s commentary page (a very courageous woman’s blog site, at that). She’s a lot of fun and she herself is quite a valiant woman, albeit a bit gregarious.” I wondered how a servant of God could even ask such questions; whether someone was ‘hot’ or not. But then again, why wouldn’t he? Appreciating beauty is universal, I suppose. Isn’t he a man, after all? Besides, Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with scenes of unimaginable beauty and those were definitely meant for men of the cloth. I should not be so judgmental, I reminded myself.


“So bloggers habitually post their photos on their blog pages. Hmm… interesting. So do you post your photos, my son?”


“Umm… no, not really. I guess I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. For myself, anyway…” I wondered how a little conversation on posting blogs took this kind of turn.


“And why not? I can see you’re no Brad Pitt, but then again…”


“But Father O’Reilly,” I protested, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the normalcy, the sheer mundane curiosity from a casual conversation in a confession booth. If I was expecting a theological discourse on the virtues of God and his minions, the illusion was shattered. “I need your advise on Bohemia. How do I start Bohemia in Singapore?”


“Ok, fine my son. Let’s ask ourselves the question; why do you like to write blog entries and why do you like fellow bloggers?”


I let out a sigh of relief. Now this was something I could answer. “The writing, the posting of entries, allows me some kind of communion with an audience. You see, I’ve always liked to write, but I never had an audience. I find great satisfaction, therefore, in taking and giving feedbacks on mine and other people’s blog entries. And the greatest thing of all, I believe, is that I can share conversation with people from all walks of life. I get to interact with people who would’ve otherwise never crossed paths. Through the magic of the internet, we all have the unprecedented opportunity to meet people without the hindrance of physical first impressions and awkward ritualistic introductions. In other words, we are free to ‘see’ someone first from their inside. I think it’s a great way to make friends… not necessarily in a romantic sense, but perhaps in a more meaningful way.”


“I see,” he said, smoothing his stubbly beard like the wise old sage that I’m sure he was. “I’ve always espoused the belief that a soul looking solely for romance misses the greater beauty of a relationship. It’s like a person who darts through the Louvre, urgently seeking to snap a photo of the Mona Lisa, whilst failing to bat an eye for all the masterpieces along the way. Of course, when he finally gets there, he learns that it’s forbidden to snap photo flashes of the Mona Lisa in that dark little inner chamber of the museum.”


“Ok, Father; so advise me now as to what I should do. This blog entry is getting rather lengthy and there’s a limit to how much I can test a blog reader’s patience. And I haven’t even written that many funny anecdotes to humor the passage along. I fear the reader will jump ship and go read the leggy girl’s chic-lit entries or the young hunk in swimming trunks.”


“Fine, fine, my impatient Korean minstrel… let’s get to the point. A place like the one you describe will require a cozy space and affordable food and wine. It cannot be a high browed emporium of fine wine nor a luxurious center for the art of gastronomy. Ideally, it would be a charming local brasserie or café, such as the ones found in abundance in Paris. A neighborhood Trattoria in Rome or Firenze might also do the trick. The problem, of course, is that Singapore is neither France nor Italy and wine, by virtue of traveling across vast oceans to reach its destination, necessarily jumps several times over in price. So one would have to find a place that serves a lower caliber of acceptable wine, to which the company and conversation would take care of elevating the dear elixir to a more exalted domain. The location won’t be so important as long as it is accessible and at least moderately central for the convenience of all parties. Ambient music would ideally be soft… something jazzy perhaps, or classical… blues or soul, even.”


I took mental notes and, of course, agreed with his wise observations. I nodded pensively.


“So do you know such a place, my son?”


“Umm… can’t say that I do. You see, I’ve been in Singapore for less than 3 years and…”


“Excuses, excuses…” he was shaking his head. I somehow felt a pang of remorse. I so wished for his approval. Is this the type of thing Catholics feel during confessions?


“The solution is in your blog community, my son. If what you are saying is true… if it’s true that you’ve been in communion with your fellow bloggers… you should seek them out to join you in your quest for your version of the sangreal (or sangria, rather more fittingly). They may step forth to assist you. Feel the Force, my son. May the Force be with you.”


Father O’Reilly was starting to sound a bit corny. “Isn’t that, like, from Star Wars?”


“What, you don’t like movies? You only read books? Oh, don’t be such a snob intellectual. Star Wars had great lines. Remember the one between C3PO and R2D2?


C3PO: I don’t know what all this trouble is about, but I’m sure it must be your fault.


R2D2: (responds with a loud beep)


C3PO: You watch your language!


Father O’Reilly was right (No, not about the Star Wars lines). I would have to lean on the good graces of fellow bloggers to find the premise of a workable Club Bohemia. A place like Cheers, where everybody knows your name. A place to rest your weary limb and perk up your mind. The place you want to go when you arrive home after a long day of work. The place to call… your place, our place, ‘the’ place.


“Does it have to be a physical place, my son?”


“Yes and no, I suppose. I guess it could be a physical place… but it could also be, like, a loose club of some sort. We might meet at a particular place, but then, we could meet for a particular event. Who knows? It would be open ended.”


“But what about me, my son? Would I be welcome?”


“But of course, Father. Although… we might have a problem…”


“And what’s that, my son?”


“Well… you’re kind of… how should I put this?…you’re a figment of my imagination. You don’t really exist now, do you?”


“Ok then. I’ll make you a deal. I can appear on those occasions where much wine has already been consumed. When everyone is a bit tipsy, shall we say, I could sneak in and pretend to be there. That makes some sense now, doesn’t it?”


“You mean, like, an imaginary friend… err, pastor? Because of the wine and the feel good factor?”


“Yes, yes… something like that. Oh, I might even have a chance to meet that nice ‘gregarious’ woman.” His eyes sparkled once again.


“I’m not sure any of this actually makes sense but… hey, sure… why not?”


“Deal?”


“Deal.”