눈 인터뷰 24

+chiangdao + 별들의 마을

발렌타인데이에 샴발라 축제에 있었다.

자신의 이름을 쓸 줄 모르는 사람을 만났다.

핀란드 사람이었는데 왜 그런 것인지는 모르겠다. 처음엔 장난치는 줄 알았다.

요즘 세상에 이런 사람이 있나.

글을 읽고 쓸 수 있는데도 그는 자신의 이름의 철자를 헷갈려하며 썼다 지웠다를 반복했다.

이름은 주변에서 계속 들리고 있었다. 여자 친구도, 그의 친구들도 부르는 그 이름.

자신만 쓸 줄 모르는 그 이름.

또 다른 바다의 눈, 그 눈은 자신의 색이 부끄럽지 않은 듯 태양 아래 드러낸 자신의 피부처럼 단단한 점토를 빚는다. 손에 온통 들러붙은 젖은 흙이 마르고 마를 때까지. 장인이라기보다 흙장난하는 아이 같다. 아주 천진난만한 푸른색으로 내 이름을 물었다.

그릇이 형태를 갖추면 불에 들어가 구워진다.  

사람들은 자신이 만든 그것에 이름을 준다.

세상에 쓰임을 할 의미를 부여한다.

사람들이 그 이름을 부른다.

그냥 흙덩이였을 뿐인데 생명이 되었다.

예쁘고 단단한 그릇을 만든 여자는 손톱 사이에 흙을 떼어내며 어디에도 속한 적 없는 아이처럼 웃었다.

소나무라는 뜻의 이름을 가진 갈색 눈의 여자도 내 이름이 좋다며 웃었다.

덕분에 내 프로젝트는 다시 원점에서 같은 눈을 보게 되었다.

샴발라에서 이름 없는 사람을 만난 것.

그건 더 이상 눈을 들여다보면서 너를 찾지 말라는 경고 같다.

이들이 흙 묻은 손으로 써준 이름들과 알 수 없는 낙서는 내가 노트를 잃어버리면서 함께 잃어버렸다.

그 이름을 부를 수는 없지만 그때의 시간과 공간으로 기억된다. 그때 내가 감각으로 느꼈던 모든 것이 그 사람의 이름이다. 그들 덕분에 내가 쓰고 있는 책의 에필로그도 끝이 났다. 프롤로그 같은 에필로그.

++

On Valentine's Day, I was at the Shambara Festival. I met someone who couldn't write his own name. He was Finnish, but I couldn't understand why. At first, I thought he was joking. Is there really such a person in the world these days?

Even though he could read and write, he hesitated and repeatedly wrote and erased his name, confusing its spelling. The name was constantly heard around him. His girlfriend, his friends, all called out that name. The name that he couldn't write himself.

The man who couldn't write his own name murmured "Bay" and "flow". His eyes, filled with an awkward light, made me feel embarrassed. It was somehow sad to see myself reflected in those eyes staring into empty space. It was the color of a sea I had never seen before. 

Beautiful. Where had I seen it before?

Sometimes I remember seeing such a color in people's eyes, like the sea. Feeling uneasy in the sea of unremembered memories, I kept writing my name on the ground.

Another sea-like gaze, those eyes mold a firm clay, like their own skin confidently revealed under the sun. Covered in moist clay, sticking to their hands until it dries out. More like a child playing with mud than a craftsman. They innocently asked for my name in a very naive shade of blue.

Once the vessel is shaped, it goes into the fire to be baked. People give names to what they create. They assign meaning to its use in the world.

People call out that name.

It was just a lump of dirt, but it became alive.

The woman who made the pretty and sturdy vessel smiled like a child who doesn't belong anywhere, picking dirt from under her nails. The woman with brown eyes, named after a pine tree, also smiled, saying she liked my name.

Thanks to them, my project saw the same eyes from the beginning again.

Meeting a nameless person in Shambara. It felt like a warning not to search for you anymore by staring at those eyes.

The names and unknown scribbles written by their dirt-covered hands were lost together with the notebook I lost.

I can't call out those names, but they are remembered as the time and space of that moment. Everything I felt with my senses at that time is their name. Thanks to them, the epilogue of the book I'm writing has ended. An epilogue like a prologue.

Looking at a piece of newspaper drifting by, it's the year 2567. The time written in the Buddhist calendar refers to the year 2024. Gathered around like in the primitive era, we see a future-like present together.

I drank the green tea served by hands covered in dirt, given by the woman with blue eyes.

The sound of cabin chimes, didgeridoos, handpan, the wind, the water, a child's song, and the sound of trees shaking, all contained in that green light.

Passing through the body, it's warm.

The name of the woman who can't remember is like that green tea.