Happy New Year

Well Happy New Year, folks. I say this and despite being a lifelong New Years Scrooge. But I guess it's the thing to do. 

Despite the official ban on fireworks here in Bali, it is quite clear, at 8:00 p.m., that people intend to disregard this altogether. I have a good mind to call the local police, but I guess that wouldn't be very neighborly 😅 I suppose I should mind my own business (as if peace and quiet is not my business) and just watch something cheerful on TV, necessarily at loud volume. Something like The Walking Dead.

Best wishes for the year to come.

Flesh

What is crystal clear from the outset of David Szalay's novel Flesh is that Mr. Szalay has read a lot of Hemingway. What is equally clear is that he has utterly failed to understand how Hemingway Hemingway-ed. It's not a matter of short sentences. Szalay has that down. It's not a matter of terse dialogue, such as

Do you think so? 

Yeah. 

Really? 

Yeah. 

What? 

Yeah.

Sure.

Okay.

which, although unintentionally hilarious, does nothing to move the story along.

This is all tone and no intention. It is tone for the sake of tone, and it is silly. 

And it don't get much better from there, folks. 

Flesh is the story of an insensitive man of meager means who manages nonetheless to rise in the world by capturing the affection, for some ungiven reason, of a wealthy woman (or rather the wife of a wealthy man), and then fall again by his own clueless devices, whereafter, it is said, he lives alone. 

That's it? 

Yeah. 

Really? 

Sure. 

The most compelling question raised by this novel, in my mind anyway, is why it was shortlisted for the 2025 Booker prize. 

Brilliance on every page, the book cover blurb gushes. 

Well, I stuck with it, friends, to the dreary end. I kept waiting for the brilliance to show up. It never did. The author could have said the whole thing in a short short story and succeeded just as well at saying nothing at all.

Water Sports

Pouring down torrential rain nearly every hour of the day here in South Bali, accompanied of course by streaks of lightning and crashing thunder. I managed to get down to a cafe for coffee this morning, but as soon as I arrived the heavens opened again and the monsoon resumed. I was sitting outside at a table protected beneath the overhang at the roof, but the rain eventually got around that by coming in sideways so that ultimately my right arm and right pant leg were wet, the pages of my book were wet, my cigarettes were wet, and my coffee topped off with rain water. But I am both stubborn and lazy. I did not want to leave my spot and go inside the cafe, so I can't really complain. In any case, my attention was attracted by something else - - two nearly naked tourists, a woman in a bikini and a man in swim trunks, strolling along the sidewalk on the other side of the street, happy as clams. How about that! I guess when the water comes to you, you may as well swim.

Merry Christmas

Well, Merry Christmas everyone. 

As I have mentioned before, there is no Christmas to speak of in Indonesia, and yet I feel Christmas in my heart anyway. Although to be honest, I woke this morning in a bit of a Scroogy mood. Everyday now, for longer than I can remember, I awake with a numb left hand, and despite the numbness, the hand is also painful. I don't feel ready to get out of bed, and yet I can't go back to sleep with this dead hand at my side. So I spend a lot of time twisting myself in various positions in an attempt to return feeling to the hand, in which I am generally, eventually successful. By that time, however, I am fully awake and find no reason to remain in bed. My back as a whole is painful anyway, as is my neck, and so I drag myself out from under the covers and begin my day. 

A glass of water and medicine first, and then I open the door for the dogs, two of whom are usually waiting impatiently on the doorstep. Sometimes three. 

I turn on the TV, I prepare my instant oatmeal, and the dogs now impatiently wait for their milk. 

My plan for this Christmas Day is to go down to the mall later, which is fully open and offering various Christmas events such as carols and a chance to meet Santa Claus. Obviously, the mall caters to tourists in the sense, although of course Indonesians always enjoy a festive atmosphere, even if they don't know what they are being festive about. 

I will have my coffee and my pastry and finish my yearly reading of Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Then I plan to wander about being festive like everyone else, being always mindful, as was Tiny Tim, of he "who made the lame beggars walk, and blind men see."

A Wonderful Life

Coming out of the Grand Lucky grocery store this morning, I was greeted by a violent downpour of rain, and so of course rather than swim over to my motorbike, I joined a line of smokers sheltering under the storefront roof. I found myself standing beside the same very tall man I had been standing behind in the grocery line. He was tall as well sitting down. 

"Would you like my seat?, he asked, starting to get up. 

" No, no, I'm fine."

(Gosh, how embarrassing it is to be so obviously old that a younger man offers his seat. But hey, I have my pride).

So I struck up a conversation. 

"What are you, about 6'5"?"

"6-6," he said. 

"Wow, that's tall."

"Yeah, especially here in Indonesia."

"Ha ha. Indeed." 

We exchanged a few common details after that. Where are you from? How long have you been here? And so on. As it turned out, the young man, maybe late twenties I figure, was from Syria.

"Well then you must be quite tall back home as well," I noted. 

"No,' he said. "I'm always the shortest one in any room." 

Holy cow! It's a nation of giants. Perhaps The offspring of the nephilim, who knows? 

Anyway, we continued our conversation about this and that, and it continued to rain, and eventually the conversation settled on how so many foreigners spend their time here complaining about everything. They complain about the traffic, they complain about the drivers, they complain about the culture and all of the ceremonies, they complain about the service, they complain that things are not the same as they are in their own countries. 

"They ought to be learning about the people, appreciating a different culture, respecting the traditions, opening themselves to other ways, he said. "Instead they complain."

Too true. I've seen this many times in my years here, even among foreign residents. Everything is better back home. Why then are they here? It's a puzzle. There are, as I told the young man, many foreigners here who just hang out in their own national groups, the French with the French, the Australians with the Australians, and so on. They don't learn the language, they don't join in the lifestyle. Their constant sport is simply complaining.

Well we moved on to how I had come to be here and to the various countries we had visited, including Japan, and also China, where he had studied language. He teaches language back in Syria. 

"How did you like Hong Kong?, he asked. "Did you get to see much of it while you were there." 

"I'm sure I did," I answered, "although it's not like I can remember much. I remember enjoying myself. But my girlfriend planned the whole thing, so we were back and forth and up and down and who knows where." 

"Your girlfriend from here?"

"Yes. Java."

At this he smiled approvingly. 

"You have a great life, Sir." 

The rain had now ceased, and the giant man offered his giant hand for me to shake. 

Folks, we are all the same. Most of us are just the same, wanting to connect, seeing one another as fellow human beings. The haters would like us to see things differently. They would like to pit us against one another with lies and fables and accusations, relying on a lack of actual knowledge and experience. But don't let the haters win. That's my Christmas message. We have so much more in common than they would like us to think. 

It is indeed a wonderful life.

Stormy Weather

We've had a week of stormy weather here in South Bali. Really fantastically stormy weather. I'm talking like end of days type storms, blinding lightning and deafening thunder, driving winds and slashing rains. Pretty exciting stuff, except for the dogs. The dogs do not find this exciting. They find it terrifying. And so, terrified, they showed up at my house - - shivering and shaking, wild-eyed, teeth chattering. Lol. They congregated in my house, finding individually a corner to hide in - - Otis at the back of the house between the wall and the bed, Jagger in his usual place beneath the drapes by the rear window, Loki in the bathroom. Even Puyuh showed up, which is unusual, because she is not generally in the habit of coming here, nor is she even very friendly with me. But this storm called for desperate measures, and Puyuh, a big yellow-furred, usually fearless female, rushed into the house just as wild-eyed and panicked as the others, and decided that her place was by the arm of my sofa, where my own arm was readily available for comforting her. I never much liked Puyuh beforehand, and she never much liked me, but I guess a good storm has a way of bringing folks together. 

A Final Word

All colors and blends of Americans have somewhat the same tendencies. It's a breed -- selected out by accident. And so we're overbrave and overfearful - - we are kind and cruel as children. We're overfriendly and at the same time frightened of strangers. We boast and are impressed. We're oversentimental and realistic. We are mundane and materialistic -- and do you know of any other nation that acts for ideals? We eat too much. We have no taste, no sense of proportion. We throw our energy about like waste. In the old lands they say of us that we go from barbarism to decadence without an intervening culture. 

--East of Eden, John Steinbeck 

It has been written that John Steinbeck considered East of Eden his crowning achievement, and in my mind he was quite right in thinking so, and I am so glad to have finally, after 71, nearly 72 years, to have gotten around reading it through.ll Then again, maybe I was not remiss or lazy in the past. Maybe this has been the proper time to read the book, because you have to be patient, you have to be focused, and you have to have, perhaps, some of the experience of life under your belt to fully digest and appreciate what is being said. 

Of course, it is hard to compare vastly dissimilar efforts in literature. East of Eden is one thing - - very long, sprawling, complex--while titles such as Cannery Row, Sweet Thursday, Of Mice and Men are as sharp and focused as one of Muhammad Ali's left jabs. I loved those brilliant short novels as well. But pressed to choose, I do conclude that East of Eden is Steinbeck's masterpiece. 

Sanitary Services

 The garbage collection system in Bali is something else. Not sure what to call it. What is it called in America? Sanitary Services? I don't remember. But here, even the word 'system' is wrong. What we have on my particular street is a guy who comes every once in a while on a motorbike with a large metal container attached to the back. By the time he shows up, the four large containers across the narrow street in front of my house have been filled to the brim and then additional garbage has been piled on the top of the containers. My container is the green one with the designation 14A painted on its face, but is liberally used by other nearby neighbors when their own containers have been filled. Being a single man who doesn't really eat very much or produce very much garbage, little of that which has accumulated in my container is actually mine. 

But I don't mean to complain, only to describe. What I want to talk about is what I witnessed the other day after the garbage man (the 'sanitary engineer'?) had finished his job. The area was left stinking after the various plastic bags had drooled on the pavement or altogether spilled out their unidentifiable innards, and of their own accord, the old folks from next door, whom we call Oma and Opa, gramma and grampa, showed up with brooms and dustpans and buckets of water to clean up and 'deodorize' the area. Just them, mind you, not the young folks. And not me either, I'll admit. And this inspired in me an appreciation for a work ethic that is gradually vanishing. 

In America, I think, everyone has their job, right? The garbage man has his job, the street cleaner has his job, the recycling service has its job. It is in no business of the individual house dweller, whose only business is to pay for these services. But there are no such services here in Bali, and so we have gramma and grampa. And I say, God bless them. This is the way they were raised, no doubt. Community itself is a community effort. 

I myself am asked to do nothing. I'm not sure why. In fact, it seems a specific desire in general that I do nothing. Do I appear weak and decrepit? Incompetent? Crippled? I remember one time when the neighborhood was forming a cooperative plan to dig the mud out of the drainage ditches by the road so that the road would stop flooding. Everyone must take part, they said in an online chat. Except Richard.

Who died and left me king? I can't help but wonder.

At the same time, I can't picture myself digging mud out of ditches. It's hard enough to dig myself out of bed in the morning. 

Is it because they feel that I, as a foreigner, have no share in the systematic shortcomings of their country? Is there an awareness that in America we have people who do these things? Is it simply because I am not one of them, that as a non-citizen, I do not bear responsibility? 

Similarly, I remember one time when I had ordered a new jug of water for my dispenser. This is done from Oma, who typically collects the money for the jug and then asks a maid to bring the jug to my door. But on this occasion the maid was not present and the next thing I knew poor old bent old gramma was struggling up the road carrying the container.

"Oh my goodness, Oma, what are you doing!" I said. "Don't carry that yourself. Wait for a helper." And I tried to take the container from her, but she would not yield. "No, no, it's nothing," she said.

And then just this morning, the man who brings the dogs their food (because the dogs are typically hanging out in my driveway in the morning), discovered, by stepping in it, that one of them had vomited during the night. He left the food and went off, but then straightaway returned with bucket of sand and gravel, which he spread over the vomit, then swept up for disposal. 

They are not his dogs. They are neighborhood dogs. They belong to us all. And yet somehow it was his job to clean up the vomit.

I don't have this work ethic folks. I never have had. I guess my dad knew that. I avoided doing jobs where possible, and did them poorly when they could not be avoided. Sorry about that, Dad. I must have disappointed you so many times, and yet you never said so. You merely went about doing what needed to be done.

And now, lucky, undeserving bastard that I am, I'm not even allowed to pitch in.

Not that I want to, honestly. I have people who do that.

Joy to the World

There is more of moroseness than of merriment to my holiday season nowadays. It is a remembrance of people and times that no longer exist, a sort of month-long funeral service. No carols are sung, no ornaments are hung, no wreaths of holly are nailed to the door and no twinkle lights are strung on the tree, for there is no tree. There is no Christmas feast and no roast beast, and no Who's down in Whoville to eat the beast. There are no brown paper packages tied up in string. It is not the most wonderful time of the year. But when all the tinsel is trimmed away, when all the colored lights are switched off and all the candle flames extinguished, and the candied yams and the leftover gravy and the remaining parts of the turkey and the dressing and the green beans and the pumpkin and the chess pies have been wrapped in foil and committed once for all to the freezer, what have we left? Perhaps, at last, Christmas itself, the Christ child, the light of the world, born in the dark of a manger. Let all the rest live in its time, and yet this one thing live forever. Tidings of great and solemn joy. 

Addendum

It seems that I forgot a couple things in my Japan trip post. Well, more than a couple things, I'm sure. My brain itself is on permanent vacation, incurably fried. I should have mentioned something more about Sapporo, for instance, but I really cannot remember how we got there from Asahikawa. Train, bus, both? Beats me. I have no recollection of it. Scotty may as well have just beamed me there. 

Anyway, we didn't see a whole lot of Sapporo, as we were there really less than 2 days. It does however leave a general impression of drabness. It is as if the city were manufactured in small parts in America and shipped over to Japan, then set up like Legos. There is nothing unique about it, nothing charming, nothing inventive or glimmering as one would see in a city like KL for instance. There's nothing that speaks at all of any difference between a city in Japan and a city in the American Midwest. It was cold, I do remember that. 

There was, now that I think of it, a Christmas market and lights display. The market consisted of a city block of temporary little stalls selling trinkets and ornaments and also various types of drink and food. I was experiencing, for some reason, a great desire for hot dogs, and so we went in search of these and found a number of hot dog stands. I chose the wrong one unfortunately. My hot dog did not look at all like the picture shown. Instead of a fat juicy hot dog what I got for my yen was a tough, scrawny little thing, more like a pepperoni stick, lost within a hot dog bun. So this was disappointing. I don't think the Japanese understand hot dogs. 

Another thing I forgot to mention is the Japanese fluffy pancakes, although these were in Asahikawa. Have you ever had Japanese fluffy pancakes? My goodness they are delicious. They are fat things, but not dense or chewy. They're fluffy like air, and they are served with maple syrup and whipped cream. We found two places while we were there that served fluffy pancakes (and upon returning to Bali, we visited the Icon Mall for more fluffy pancakes 😅. Now Evelyn is complaining that she is fat, although I do not believe that for a minute).

There is something else, by the way, that she reminded me to mention here. Typically, I have forgotten what it was. 

Back to Steinbeck

Then there was a man, smart as satan, who, lacking some perception of human dignity and knowing all too well every aspect of human weakness and wickedness, used his special knowledge to warp men, to buy men, to bribe and threaten and seduce until he found himself in a position of great power. He clothed his motives in the names of virtue, and I have wondered whether he ever knew that no gift will ever buy back a man's love when you have removed his self-love. A bribed man can only hate his briber. When this man died the nation rang with praise and, just beneath, a gladness that he was dead. 

I will say no more, for words are dangerous these days. But my aim is clear and the subject is obvious to those of good conscience. There are good people in this world, and there are bad people in this world. That is the core essential message in East of Eden. It has been so from the beginning, ever since Cain murdered his brother Abel, and we live with this struggle from each time to the next, each life to the next, each generation to the next, until judgment day comes. The good wonder whether they have done well enough, and know that they have not, while the evil simply die.

Let It Snow!

Well, I've been away for a while, and I know that you all must have been missing my regular updates on my reading progress through East of Eden (joking). But I'm not going to talk about Eden now. I'm going to talk about Japan, from whence I have just recently returned. 

For our destination, Evelyn had chosen Hokkaido Island, for the primary reason, I think, that she had never before seen snow and wanted very much to do so somewhere in this lifetime. Seeing it, she later learned after making our reservations, would not be a sure thing, as she had chosen a date that might be just a bit early. But she had her hopes, and so had I, for I myself have not seen snow in more than 15 years now. I've not even felt cold temperatures, except for a short time in Hong Kong. 

The worst thing about Japan is just getting there. First we took a 3-hour flight to Kuala Lumpur for a transfer, and then the 6-hour flight from KL to Hokkaido. Arrival on that island was followed by a 2-hour train trip to the city of Asahikawa. The leg of the trip from KL to Hokkaido took place during the dead of night, but if you've ever tried to sleep on a long airplane trip, you will understand the difficulties faced. Sleeping while sitting up in an uncomfortable chair for 6 hours is difficult even for a tired 71-year-old man (and I can refer to myself as such for only one more month to come, give or take). So, despite being tired, and despite having taken a Xanax pill, I was only able to nod off here and there during the flight. 

Once we had arrived, however, Japan was just wonderful. How refreshing it was to step out into temperatures of -1 centigrade and less. How bracing! And how welcome after so many years of relentless heat. Not welcome forever, mind you. One soon learns to curse the cold when cold becomes a constant thing, and to cherish memories of the tropical heat, however deadly. 

But there was no snow. 

What we did find was the cherry little town of Asahikawa, all decked out in Christmas lights, and populated in the town square and in the mall by brightly decorated Christmas trees. Now that is another thing I have dearly missed, my friends. In Bali, there is no Christmas to speak of, but in Japan it is all the rage, despite being essentially a non-Christian country. But they do love the lights and the decorations and the cold noses and the mittened fingers. Santa Claus is not really a thing, nor of course is Jesus. But the lights and the trees and the tinsel are.

Speaking of which--our first stop on the day of arrival, after checking into our hotel room, was a sporting goods store offering affordable boots and gloves, which were much needed to replace our t-shirts and sandals from Bali. 

For the first couple days, we explored our little neighborhood, sampled various choices of Japanese cuisine, acquainted ourselves with Japanese behavior, which is very extremely polite and with a lot of nodding and bowing and muttering of words that would probably translate as sorry or excuse me. At the same time, despite the ever-present politeness, I did not find the Japanese people in general to be very friendly. They seem mildly irritated by visitors from abroad, and they do not for the most part speak English, which surprised me. I had thought that in such a modern country English would be fairly common, especially in industries that interact with a tourist population. And yet it appears that many more Indonesian people speak at least some English than the Japanese. We, or rather Evelyn communicated with them through Google translate on phone screens. They would read her question and then point and bark There, there! 

I should add that Japan is relentlessly clean, despite the absence of any public trash bins that I could find. Where do they put there trash? It's a mystery. Do they carry it home with them?

I of course looked for places to smoke. Smoking, as it turns out, is not at all a popular hobby in Japan. One might even say that it is not an acceptable hobby. There was, however, a smoking lounge (fancy word for closet) in our hotel, where I hung out from time to time with other shabby, unacceptable looking people to blow smoke at each other and politely cough or sneeze. 

It was on the third day, I think, that we took a 2-hour bus ride up to a little place called Sounkyo. (I don't know why, but every bus trip we took was a 2-hour trip. Go figure. Everything of interest in Japan, I guess, or at least in Hokkaido, is roughly 2 hours away). There was not much in Sounkyo other than a couple of hotels and a street of shops that were all closed, for it was dark by the time we arrived and teeth chattering cold. What we did find, however, was snow! It started to flutter down in little flakes, but then kicked up into a vigorous flurry. 

We were in the visitor's center when I noticed the snow coming down. There you go, Evelyn - - snow! 

This was probably my favorite part of the entire trip. To see her childlike joy, to see her jump and dance about and catch snowflakes in her hands and put them on her tongue, to scoop up the swiftly gathering snow and let it sift through her fingers (barehanded yet!), or press it into snowballs, which of course she flung at me. She is 53 years old, and she has never seen snow other than in a picture book or on a TV screen. She has never felt what cold is like.

Immediately, she wanted to book a room in one of the hotels. Sadly, however, it turned out that rooms were available only by reservation, and there was no room at the inn. As it was, we had to run to catch our bus, because it was the last bus of the day and if we had missed it, we would have been up shi--I mean Snow Crick. 

But there was more snow to come in Asahikawa--not so much as Sounkyo, but enough to keep her dancing and marveling.

Another trip we made (another 2 hour bus ride) was to Shirahige waterfall, a frozen cascade from high cliffs into a ravine of bluish colored water, colored so no doubt by the rocks beneath the surface. There was a lot of snow on the ground there, and so much more of fascination. And hundreds of pictures, I think, although that may be an exaggeration. 

Finally, after a number of days, we took a bus down to Sapporo, and then another bus up to a place called Otaru to see a canal that is famous for some reason, and also to visit the Le Tao cheesecake and pastry shop (which, coincidentally, will soon open at the Sanur mall some 5 minutes from my house). But oh well, there was snow there too in Otaru.

From there it was Sapporo to Hong Kong and thence to Bali--and this time, friends, with the help of Xanax and general exhaustion, I slept like a baby on the long last leg home.

What To Do

And she looked forward to heaven as a place where clothes did not get dirty and where food did not have to be cooked and dishes washed. Privately there were some things in heaven of which she did not quite approve. There was too much singing, and she didn't see how even the Elect could survive very long the celestial laziness which was promised. She would find something to do in heaven. There must be something to take up one's time - - some clouds to darn, some weary wings to rub with liniment. Maybe the collars of the robes needed turning now and then, and when you come right down to it, she couldn't believe that even In heaven there would not be cobwebs in some corner to be knocked down with a cloth-covered broom.

--East of Eden, John Steinbeck 

Right? I've been thinking of these things myself. There must be something to take up ones time, to break up the celestial laziness (otherwise known as boredom, I suppose). What about reading, as I've mentioned before? What is life, or death, without reading? How will we while away the eons of eternity? And what about eating? Will there be food to eat, or the need of food? I have always imagined not, but come to think of it now, the Lord himself ate while clothed with the resurrection body. He fried fish for the disciples and ate with them by the fire. And he broke bread with the men he met on the road to Emmaus. This, as theorized by many theologians, was to demonstrate to people that he was not a ghost or an ephemeral spirit. Touch the wounds in my hands, he told Thomas; put your hand into my side where the spear pierced. So we have this body, this resurrection body, and surely something must be done with it. We must be put to tasks, else we may as well be in the grave. What is the nature of these eternal occupations? About that, we know nothing - - other than this: that No eye seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.

More from Eden

More news from Eden [all quotes from East of Eden by John Steinbeck] 

One day Samuel strained his back lifting a bale of hay, and it hurt his feelings more than his back, for he could not imagine a life in which Sam Hamilton was not privileged to lift a bale of hay. He felt insulted by his back, almost as he would have been if one of his children had been dishonest.

Yes, I am insulted as well, and feel betrayed. I cannot do the things I used to do, the things I am supposed to be able to do. Just this morning, three of the neighborhood dogs were attacking a little white dog halfway up the street. I started up there in a hurry, but found that running was quite impossible. I did run a few steps but it became clear that I would soon pitch forward onto my face if I were to continue. It was important for me to get to the dogs quickly, and I was insulted and offended by my inability to do so. 

There are small things, everyday things. Sweeping or mopping the floor soon send me aching to my bed. Lifting the 5 gallon jug of water into the water dispenser leaves me sweating, and the task oftentimes undone. My back has rebelled and has won, but this is still not something I can just sit back and accept. No, I will do it again, I will do it next time, and next time I will succeed. 

Did I get to the little white dog in time? I don't know. I was able to chase off the attackers, and yet the little dog only lay in the grass after I arrived, looking up at me pitifully. He could not get to his feet, or he would not for fear that the dogs would return. I don't know which. 

There is no sane or reasonable world in which I cannot run, in which I cannot manage my own house. And yet there is. 

   "Was she very beautiful, Samuel?" 

   "To you she was because you built her. I don't think you ever saw her - - only your own creation." 

Here again is my own past, peeking into judge me - - or is it to console, to validate? I know this truth, I have thought about it lately, I have discussed it with my girlfriend in answer to her questions, and so how curious it is that the subject keeps showing up in what I happen to be reading. There is a sort of magic in literature. Somehow, it marches along with you, it examines you as you examine it, it puzzles over things that puzzle you. I've seen this happen so very many times. There's a synchronicity to it. Meaningful coincidence. And it is wonderful.

Morning

Morning seems to come earlier every year I live. 

--East of Eden, John Steinbeck 

It does indeed. And evening is the same. I have my coffee in the morning, and then who knows what happens to the hours afterward--up until about 8:00 p.m. that is, when they regather themselves and crawl heavily toward 11, my usual bedtime. Here is the 3-hour eternity of each day. What will I do, I wonder? How very long it is until I may sleep! And then the same all over again. Days pass, and weeks, and months, and all the while I have not much time remaining. Time is rushing before me, ahead of me, and I know I will not catch up. Only now, at the late hour, do we begin to grasp the value of time, for the sands are low and forever running to the end. I wonder if people in heaven ever read. I can't imagine life without coffee, a cigarette, and a book.

Three Quotes from East of Eden

There are monstrous changes taking place in the world, forces shaping a future whose face we do not know. Some of these forces seem evil to us, perhaps not in themselves but because their tendency is to eliminate other things we hold good.

Monstrous changes indeed, and that is where we are now. Monstrous changes are being forced upon us, and in this case, in our time, they don't just seem evil, they are evil. And yes, the things we hold good are being shoved aside, by a corrupt and lawless administration, by a lazy, clueless, hate-filled electorate, and more and more commonly by an armed and unrestrained military style force. 

But harkening back to an earlier post, it seems that monstrous changes have always been upon us. In this passage from East of Eden, Steinbeck is talking about the turn of the last century, the atmosphere in the early 1900s, but he published this novel in 1952 and I'm certain that, as is peculiar to all great novelists, he was talking about his own time as well; moreover, as is part of Steinbeck's point throughout the novel, and in fact extending back to biblical times, he was looking ahead to times beyond his own life span. Our times. 

But some men are friends with the whole world in their hearts, and there are others that hate themselves and spread their hatred around like butter on hot bread.

There are others, yes, and there always have been. Perhaps it is as Steinbeck says, that this is first of all a self-hatred, and then is translated outward to a hatred of a certain people, people of a different color or nationality or culture. They hate because they are weak and insecure and greedy and ignorant, and boy does that hatred spread like hot butter when allowed to spill. We have powerful people among us now who call such hatred good and right and reasonable. And so God help us all. 

Perhaps Adam did not see Cathy at all, so lighted was she by his eyes. Burned in his mind was an image of beauty and tenderness, a sweet and holy girl, precious beyond thinking, clean and loving, and that image was Cathy to her husband, and nothing Cathy did or said could warp Adam's Cathy.

Totally unrelated to the first two quotes, but definitely a deja vu moment to me. I worshiped a woman once, put her on a pedestal, and kept her there through unshakable faith in my own delusions. Nothing she did or said could warp my vision. I would not allow it. All things that did not fit with my fantasy were counted as anomalies, not really who she was or meant to be. Misunderstandings. My vision was good, lovely, lasting, true. But ultimately, it simply had nothing to do with who she was. She was my invention and lived only in my mind. And in my heart, yes. Very much so in my heart. 

East of Eden

You can see how this book has reached a great boundary that was called 1900. Another hundred years were ground up and churned, and what had happened was all muddled by the way folks wanted it to be--more rich and meaningful the farther back it was. In the books of some memories it was the best time that ever sloshed over the world--the old time, the gay time, sweet and simple, as though time were young and fearless. 

--East of Eden, John Steinbeck

I once some many years ago started out reading East of Eden, but somehow at that time I could not get into it. Or perhaps it was just the many responsibilities and demands on my time that existed back in those younger years that interrupted my progress. It is, after all, a very long novel, requiring a reader's devotion. But I have returned to it again, now bereft of excuse, and, some 150 pages in, I am quite enjoying it. 

This is a story, in the most brief summation, of a good man, a bad man, and an evil woman. And of course it is all quite biblical. The blurb on the back of my particular edition describes the book as 'A fantasia of history and myth', which seems apt enough, because the Bible itself is a fantasia of history and myth, all intermingled and vigorously stirred to a froth. So it happens that we make myth of history, and vice versa, and are never quite sure of which is which. It is all muddled in the way folks wanted it to be. What is truth, right? Lost in the soup of history and myth, of personal preference and personal experience. 

A professor of mine at university once said that one cannot understand American literature without knowing the Bible. I have always remembered that. And I cannot help but see that East of Eden is laid out in a sort of biblical form, flowing from myth to tale to history to poetry, leaving it to the reader to divine which is which, and leading him in any case, whether he divines or does not, to the same aggregate of understanding. (In other words, old literature majors like to pick and pluck at a book, but it is hardly a requirement in general 😉).

Good Times

In November, a reporter broke the story of the My Lai massacre, which had happened back in March of '68. Two platoons of U.S. soldiers had walked into a cluster of villages in the Quang Ngai province one morning, expecting to encounter Vietcong. Instead, they encountered families cooking breakfast, husbands and wives and elderly and children. None of them armed or even very worried, at first. Then one of the soldiers opened fire, another tossed a villager into a well and dropped in a grenade, and the rest of the soldiers joined in shooting, lobbing grenades, rounding up and executing person after person for sport. Mothers and babies, grandparents. They marched groups of villagers into ditches and shot them en masse. They raped young women in front of their families, then shot them all. Over the course of two hours, the two American platoons tortured and murdered anywhere from 350 to 500 unarmed South Vietnamese civilians. That story on everyone's breakfast table (the photos, by chance, taken by a young war photographer from Cleveland) cut through any lasting, reasonable perception that the war was under control.

----------

This is why old people seem distant and distracted, he thought. We aren't living in the past; the past is living in us. 

--Buckeye, Patrick Ryan

And yet we live as well, doggedly, necessarily, in the present moment, and moment by moment, moving through, pressing on. We live continually in the worst of times, because those are the times that are upon us, those are the times that disappoint us once again, that break our hearts, that seem a crisis perhaps insurmountable. And we are too old for this. The whole world is playing with fire. 

And then we remember that it always has been. 

Buckeye, by Patrick Ryan, reminds me of the many unpleasant fires we have all walked through, and come out on the other side, only to find a new fire burning there. Or perhaps it is the same fire burning eternally and for all generations. It is a long novel, but an easy read, in terms of flow, hearkening back to an older style of American narrative, reminiscent of Sherwood Anderson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Theodore Dreiser. It is a story, and no more than a story really. It is a reminder of the '40s and the '50s and the '60s and the '70s--those years that created all of us old fogies of the present time. There is no other story lurking beneath the surface, no mystery to interpret. But it is the years themselves that interpret us. We move along through love, relationship, betrayal, repentance, forgiveness, regret, loss, grief; we all live and know and experience the same things in various shades. It is built into life, and this life is played out on the stage of a world constantly at war, relentlessly ruthless, inclined toward evil. It has always been so. We merely forget, and call these years the good old days.

Wonderful

"I won't lie to you ... dying was unpleasant. But death? It's wonderful." 

--Buckeye, Patrick Ryan

That's just the thing, isn't it? As an aging man in my final years (any way you look at it), the dying itself does not seem like bad news. It's the unpleasantness of getting it over with that one would prefer to skip.

And as I reach this point of no return, as must we all, I am torn between regret and relief. Strangely enough, for all the pains of age that we suffer, for all the bother of full body arthritis, for all the embarrassments of progressive memory loss and even more progressive clumsiness and ineptitude, life begins to take on a new sharpness of focus - - not through the eyes, mind you, but through the soul. Color that has faded through the years, as if through simple neglect, begins to return, and how wonderful the world seems once again. We find ourselves, ironically, with time on our hands - - time for kindness, time for love, time for patience, time for forbearance, time for appreciation, time for empathy, and time for growth. Growth! Of all things, growth, at this age. And we can't help but wonder why we didn't do it sooner. 

We find ourselves with time, I say - - and yet, not much. We have but little time remaining and so very much to do and to be and to become. We cannot possibly finish, and yet we are nearly finished.

Lest, however, I paint too bright a picture, what we find before us as well is ruin, heartbreak, decay, failure. Not in ourselves, if we are fortunate enough to have lived not too badly in our time, but in the world, for which we once had high hopes. I will admit that I am no longer able to watch the news. It is simply too tragic. I attempt to clean my algorithms, so smudged with the dirt and shit of my country's relentless decline. I suffer every day from what I see and from what I hear of my old home even though I am not even there. Even though I've not been there in 15 years. And yet I am there. My heart is there, my soul is there, my mother, my father, my son, all of my family, albeit all in the grave. We are there, I am there. It cannot be undone. It is in my blood. No tree exists separately from its roots.

This wonderful world, in the end, as we cannot help but acknowledge, is no more than a hopeless wasteland. And so I say, Enough. I'm done. And so I am relieved to be relieved. No more of this. My heart cannot stand it, my soul longs for better things than a fallen world which will never rise. It was always meant to end, just as I am meant for an end.

And what then?

And then I am there.

Some from Sanur

Spent a very nice 10 days or so with Evelyn here in my hometown of Sanur. Just thought I would post a few photos. The rumor is that we will be going to Japan in November, but I will believe it when I see it 😉

w

Wherezone.

I miss being at home in a culture. Using English with other native speakers is what I might miss most. For nuance and verve, English wins. We took a Germanic language and then enfolded it with Norman French and a bunch of Latin and ever since we keep building out. Our words, our expansive idioms, are expressive and creative and precise, like our music and our subcultures and our street style, our passion for violence, stupidity, and freedom.

----

How much of fishing was fishing and how much was something else, a way to empty the mind, to stop time. 

--Creation Lake, Rachel Kushner

Just a couple more snippets from Creation Lake. I'm loving this story, it's offbeat narrative and it's offbeat protagonist, the quietly astute passing observations, the gathering of disparate storylines that finally merge to a whole. A creation, so to speak. 

And speaking of creations--how about Trump's creation of a war zone in Portland, Oregon out of thin air. The city is in flames, it seems, destruction as far as the eye can see ... and yet no eye has seen it. As far as I have read in the news or watched on TV or heard from old friends on site, no plumes of smoke or fiery flames or mobs of lunatic leftists or vicious Antifa armies have been sighted, although it has been said that there is a handful of young protesters hanging around outside the ICE facility, chanting and holding signs and such like. Falls a bit short of apocalypse.

I've been enjoying reading the daily jokes and sarcastic videos posted by Portlanders on Facebook about this invisible warzone. And it has given me a chance to show some nice pictures of Portland to my girlfriend, who of course has never been there. Looks like heaven to her, by the way. 

But to borrow a word from a well-known figure, it's all just a hoax, isn't it. Yes, it's an excuse for yet another round of political theatrics, and rather sinister ones at that. Something's happening here. What it is is exactly clear. There's a man with a crown over there. Telling us we've got to beware. 

So be careful out there, old friends. Stay low and move fast. Keep your heads down and your peaceful hopes high. And while you're at it, welcome the stranger, which in this case is us. 

If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him a drink. For by doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head. 

--Romans 12:20

Creation Lake

But here is how the state does things: They have a deer population that's getting out of control, so what do they do? They bring in lynx. When farmers get upset about the lynx, the government reintroduces wolves. The wolves kill livestock, so the state makes it legal to shoot them. Hunting accidents increase, so they build a new clinic, whose medical staff creates a housing shortage, necessitating new developments. The expanding population attracts rodents, and so they introduce snakes. And so far, no one knows what to do about the snakes.

--Creation Lake, Rachel Kushner

I've started excellent novel recently. Wow, two winners in a row. I'm on a roll. 

Creation Lake, the story of "a 34-year-old American undercover agent of ruthless tactics and bold opinions" (as the book cover blurb has it) was shortlisted for the Booker prize in 2024. It is offbeat, intelligent, quietly witty, extremely well written, and most of all not what it seems to be on its face. Just my cup of tea.

A Hell of a Good Read

There's a million things to keep a soul from writing, all in the service of making you better at it. Remember that, Alice law. Hell is a writers' market. 

--Katabasis, R.F. Kuang

Well, I've finished Kuang's journey through Hell, and sadly all too quickly, for I enjoyed every page and looked forward to reading the next. But oh well, I can always return to it again in the future, if I live long enough, and if my eyesight holds out, which is something I've said about many novels which wait on the bookshelf for my return.

As I mentioned in an earlier post (I think), this novel is not for everyone, and certainly not for the casual reader; but for one who is familiar with the old classics, Dante, Homer, Milton, Plato et al, it is a sheer delight. 

Kuang gets a bit lost during the last quarter of the book in the mazes of hell (in my opinion anyway), but she finds her way again in the end, through the seven courts of hell, and wraps things up nicely, tying up the ends of an old tale, in her own new way, of love, sacrifice, redemption, and rebirth.

The Beast

A beast gnaws at me at all hours of the day, but you can't see it. I feel so weak and scattered my mind won't work...

--,Katabasis, R.F. Kuang

In this passage from Katabasis, the author describes the sufferings of a man inflicted with Crohn's disease, which, like MS, is an incurable autoimmune disorder. But the characterization in general may as well refer to all such disorders. It certainly strikes a note in me, for I am suffering these days from a very active phase of MS which is coinciding with and working alongside a problem with herniated discs in my back and neck, exacerbating the problem and exaggerating the pain. Not only does it influence the pain in my shoulder, neck and back, but then modulates to neuropathic symptoms in my legs. This begins with a feeling of numbness in my feet, which then begins to rise up through my ankles and calves in the form of an intense aching stiffness. This in turn makes me want to continually move, to get up and walk around in circles, to stamp my feet on the floor. If I sit down or lie down it will soon feel as if I want to crawl right out of my own skin. I guess this is similar to the RLS I used to often experience, or is a variant form of RLS. There have also been many times when I wake from sleep with a feeling of intense heat in my legs, as if my skin is actually on fire. Pregabalin helps with this, but I have been taking 300 mg a day, separated in three doses, and that feels like a bit much over the long term. So next week I hope to see the doctor and perhaps we can find out what other interventions might help. Until then, thank you, R.F. Kuang, for your sympathetic description.

Over the River and Through the Trees

I had another interesting dream a couple nights ago. In this dream I wanted to cross over a body of water to the other side, wherein, as was my impression, there would be some kind of transcendence, a sort of promised land. One had to wade across this water, which was not very deep, just about waist deep. 

So I started out and got about halfway when the water around me begin to churn and push against my progress, and it was filled with some kind of thick sludge, like wading through a sewer. I could see the clear, refreshing water before me and all I wanted was to press on and reach that pure water and bathe myself and drink of the water. 

But of course I woke before I got across. 

There is something that we must struggle through. There is a barrier. But there is deliverance on the other side.

Heaven

Last night, I had a dream where I came upon a place in the beloved forests of my youth. There was a king size bed in this place, all made up with white sheets and blanket, just lying open in nature, and around the top of the headboard were sprigs of holly. I laid down on the bed and my God how comfortable it was! There was to be a gathering, I understood, down by the lakeside. My son showed up then and we walked together to the lakeside where we joined a group of people singing praise songs. We knew the songs by heart and we sang along with ardor.

I woke, considered this dream for a bit, and then slept again and dreamed this time of discussing the dream with one of my wives. Louise, I think. 

It was impossible, we said. Quite impossible. Just think of what would become of that bed in the open, without walls, without a roof, when the rain came and the snow and the winds. Surely it would go all soggy and gradually disappear into the forest floor. And how would one live in that place anyway during the winter? It was quite unreasonable, wasn't it? 

Faith and disbelief. Life and death, and death and life. 

The assurance of things hoped for. The conviction of things not seen. 

The conviction that there is no such thing as things not seen.

Pascal's Wager:

• if you believe in God and God exists, you gain eternal bliss. 

• if you don't believe in God and God exists, you risk eternal torment. 

• if you believe in God and God does not exist, you may suffer some finite disadvantages in this life.

• if you don't believe in God and God does 

not exist, you may gain some finite pleasures in this life.

Store up your treasures in heaven, where moth and vermin do not destroy.

Advice to Extraterrestrials

If these ETIs really do exist, most of us would have to admit that they have terrible timing. Humanity is fractured, bellicose, paranoid. It's the cosmological equivalent of having a guest come to the door when you're in the middle of a knockdown, drag out fight with your spouse, there are lines of coke on the coffee table, and your pants are down around your ankles. It isn't the failure to communicate that fascinates me: it's the implication that these ETIs appear to have no interest in communication at all. And we humans, vain, egotistical creatures that we are, can't help but take that a little personally.

--Axiom's End, Lindsay Ellis

Indeed, if you are listening, extraterrestrials, I would advise at the very least that you avoud visiting the United States any time soon.

Katabasis

On equipping for a trip to hell and back: 

She had flashlights, iodine, matches, rope, bandages, and a hypothermia blanket. She had a new, sparkling pack of Barkles' Chalk and every reliable map of Hell she could find in the University library carefully reproduced in a laminated binder. (Alas, they all claimed different typographies--she figured she would get somewhere high up and choose a map when she arrived). She had a switchblade and two sharp hunting knives. And she had a volume of Proust, in case at night she ever got bored. (To be honest she had never gotten round to trying Proust, but Cambridge had made her the kind of person who wanted to have read Proust, and she figured Hell was a good place to start.)

--Katabasis, R.F. Kuang. 

I have been eagerly looking forward to starting R.F. Kuang's new novel, Katabasis, waiting only to finish the Indonesian language version of Stephen King's Misery first, which I have now done. (And which by the way, is far creepier than I remember it being, and creepier than the movie as well. I first read Misery many years ago, and so my memory of the novel itself was a bit vague. I remembered the movie version better, for I had seen it more recently and I have seen it more than once. But the movie, as I now realize, left out a number of truly chilling details.) 

But back to Kuang...

Katabasis, in ancient Greek, means The story of a hero's descent to the underworld, and this is quite literally, not at all figuratively, what Alice, the hero of this novel, and her sidekick Peter do in this delightfully comical tour of the nether regions, guided on their way by the necessarily imperfect knowledge and wisdom, the tartarology, of the ancient greats--Dante, Orpheus, Plato, Aeneas and the rest of the whole crew--Oh, and throw in TS Eliot, though not so very ancient. By page 6, where the bit about Proust appears, I was laughing out loud, and I've been chuckling ever since through the next 130 pages or so. 

For a literary person, or one familiar with academia, this novel touches a symphony full of familiar chords. It is kind of like Kuang's previous novels, Babel and Yellowface, only on hallucinogenic drugs. On the other hand, it will surely be unsatisfying to those who enjoyed her fantasy trilogy, the Opium Wars (which I did not. Sorry, R.F.).

I love the playfulness here, the tongue in cheek humor, the vast sweep of literary, religious, and philosophical references all spilled out across the narrative plane like tiddlywinks in the search of a stable pattern. Who knew that the twisting path through Hell would lead to such pleasant reading!

Too Much Sun

A few days ago, the Russian man who was renting the house behind mine, which is owned by Louise and Wayne, came to my door late at night to drop off the key with me, as he was moving out. I was to hold it for Wayne. 

So far so good. 

The following morning, the maid who works at the house behind mine, and whom I have seen many times and occasionally had a chat with, came to my door asking for the key, as she was going to clean up after the Russian had departed. 

Still no problem. 

The problem waited till that night, when the maid showed up once again to return the key. This time, however, I thought she was my maid, Kaka, for some reason. I have been expecting Kaka to come to my house on Friday to do cleaning here, so after taking the key, I mentioned this.

Friday, right, right? I said. 

Friday? 

Yes.

Here?

Yes.

Why?

The poor girl's consternation was clear, but not so clear, in truth, as mine. My mind was working. What's happening here? it asked. What am I missing? Wait, is this in fact Kaka?

Slowly, sludgy gears grinding in my mind, I put it together. This was not Kaka. This was not my maid. She would not be coming here on Friday 🤪

Oh. Sorry, I said. I'm confused. 

She patted me on the shoulder, smiling sympathetically. 

You got too much sun at the beach today, Bapak.

Here in Indonesia it is called pikun. In English we call it senility.

Crocodile Rock

Looking across the waters of the gently lapping bay at the Port of Sanur, I can see the skeletal structure of what was once to have been the central meeting house of a theme park, now long ago abandoned before it had properly begun. Apparently the land had been illegally purchased or something. The park had been roughly hewn from the jungle, pathways had been partly lain, a crocodile pond dug and lined with cement and fenced and even, according to legend, stocked with crocodiles. The central house had once had walls and a roof but the materials of those had long since been cannibalized for the wood for use elsewhere. What remains now are mere slats, white as bones, rather miraculously still standing despite wind and weather. See me, for here I forever die, they say.

Through the ensuing years, the jungle has reclaimed the land, broken up the pathways, hidden all the old plans, buried whoever's dream this had been, and yet rumors and tales of crocodiles persist. Some few had survived, it is said, and hide to this day among the crawling roots and reaching vines, living on rodents and smaller lizards and maybe even cats and dogs. (They're eating the cats! They're eating the dogs!).

I once wrote an article about this place, this old project, for the Bali Times. What had it been called? I don't remember. Sunrise Circus, perhaps. Or Crocodile Carnival. I don't know. 

I wonder why it is still there, despite not being there at all. 

It's windy now and the wind tugs at my thoughts. Black clouds rise like smoke from the far hills across and beyond the bay even as the last rays of the sunlight set dim fire to the horizon. Nearby, nearer than the clouds, nearer then the far shore, nearer than the old carcass of the abandoned park, two girls sit at a table with sweet chocolate colored drinks and I watch them as they do a kind of choreographed dance with their hands and fingers. Something they had seen in a music video, perhaps. They laugh and giggle and do it again and again. It must be perfect, it must be carefully synchronized. I wonder what it means. I wonder what people are saying these days.

Sometimes, as a matter of fact, not rumor at all, real crocodiles are seen in these shallow waters near the shore. It is said that they come down streams during the flood stage. Warnings are issued in the daily press. Swimmers beware. 

Beware of what is real. Beware of what is myth. Beware of things that are only partly seen within the wind and beneath the waves. They could be tangled together like a dance, a song of rhythm and inscrutable signs.

Mati Aki

As I headed out as usual for Sanur a few days ago to have my usual morning coffee and pastry, I noted that the battery light was lit up on my motorbike panel. Damn, I thought, I'd better turn around and head for Honda service. The last thing I want is to be stuck somewhere with a dead bike. So I changed direction and headed up Jalan Buyon toward Renon where the nearest service center is located. 

Straight away, I ran into a ceremony, a long procession of the Hindu faithful parading toward Sanur. Damn, for the second time. Now here I am trapped in the middle of a parade, going just about nowhere, expecting that at any minute my motorbike well choke and cough and die. The red battery light glowed angrily. 

Miraculously (or so I thought at the time, anyway), the bike did not die. I arrived at the Honda service center, parked at the outer edge of a crowded lot full of bikes belonging to people who had arrived long before me, and proceeded into the front office. 

To my surprise, the woman at the desk gave me her immediate attention, rose from her chair, and went to fetch one of the mechanics. I followed the young man out to my bike, handing him my keys. Here we go, I thought. I wonder how much this is going to cost me. 

The mechanic started up the bike, and the light did not go on. Of course it didn't.

It was on, I insisted. It really was! 

Well, as it turned out, and as the mechanic explained to me, it is not unusual for the battery light to shine, and it is not a problem. All I needed to do is drive around and around for a while. That charges the battery. 

So I don't need to buy a new battery? 

Nope. Just drive. 

Drive, he said. 

Happy with this simple solution to what turned out to be nothing, I mounted my bike, began to back up toward the street, and then suddenly everything was going sideways. How can this be, I wondered, as I helplessly watched myself and my bike go down to the pavement. I still don't understand how this happened. It was just like in that old TV commercial. You know, I've fallen and I can't get up! And how about that, it was real all along. I had fallen, and I couldn't get up! What I do know is that I fairly quickly ended up flat on my back, even bonking my head at the end of the fall. Luckily I had already put my helmet on. 

But my goodness, how embarrassing, how humiliating. A half dozen people shrieked, a half dozen others rushed in my direction. 

Aduh aduh, what happened, Pak?

Damned if I know. 

Anyway, they picked up my bike. And then they picked me up, setting me back on my feet. And I went on my way, red-faced, feeling stupid. 

Unbelievable! All of this trouble over a red light that ended up meaning nothing. Sheesh. 

Fingerpainting

My brain cannot communicate without my fingers. My fingers are the actual voice of my brain. It is they that relate my thoughts in full. My brain thinks these thoughts in an amorphous sort of form, the thoughts rattle around for a while, and then proceed to my shoulders and down my arms, thence to the hands and finally to the fingers, which then press the proper keys on a typewriter or a laptop or a piano or whatever medium is required for expression. 

Without my fingers, I cannot think. Without the interpretation that happens in the fingers the result of my cogitation is clunky, homely, half-baked, repulsive. 

Writing is like using a Ouija board. You set your fingers on the disc at the center and you wait for words to appear. 

Writing is like fishing. You cannot generally see what is beneath the surface of the lake, but you know that it is there. Your hands, your fingers do all of the work, for it is they which hold the fishing pole and feed out the line. 

The trouble is, my fingers don't work anymore. The fingers on my right hand are consistently arthritic, curled in toward the palm. They no longer think. They are mere dumb appendages. And my left hand is, in the first place, only a left hand after all, and secondly often numb. I use voice type now. And that's what I'm saying. I am saying that this, that everything, is not what I meant to say. It is a stillborn version of what I meant to say, or rather of what my fingers would have said had I still their use at my disposal.

Long ago, in my first couple years of college, I was a music major and my instrument was the piano. I was never very good at reading music. Its translation from the printed notes on the sheet of music to the keys of the piano was painstakingly slow. And yet once the information had traveled in full from my head to my fingers, it was thereafter imprinted in the memory of my fingers. They would play the piece automatically, no longer requiring my eyes upon the page of music. In fact, I did not look at the printed page at all once the information had been stored in my fingertips.

At the end of every term, we would have to perform a piece on our chosen instrument for the department head. I remember approaching the piano on these occasions with nervous trepidation, thinking I don't know this piece, I cannot read the music if I get stuck in the middle. And yet, my fingers had no need of my brain, or of my eyes. Astoundingly, they performed the piece without me. Empty-headed, I merely watched, and thought My goodness, how marvelous. 

Gosh I miss my fingers. I miss the things they used to say.