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.

Caterpillar Season

It's caterpillar season here in South Bali. Or centipede season, or whatever these multi-legged crawley creatures are. They are brown critters, or black with yellow stripes, and they are all over the place, outside and inside. Every day I sweep a number of them out of my house in the middle of their explorations. It's hard to tell just what they are up to. Their travels appear aimless, round and round the front patio, in and out of the house beneath the doorways. Searching for meaning, perhaps. Them and me both. But they're not really bothersome. They don't bite nor do they sting. They merely wander. 

I drove this morning to Pantai Matahari Terbit, the closest beach to my house, needing merely 5 minutes or so to get there. The beachfront has been totally changed from what it used to be, the long line of ticket seller booths gone (tickets for the boat trips to nearby Islands), replaced by a row of small cafes with oceanfront sitting areas. Rather pleasant, really, although a bit hot in the morning, facing as it does the rising sun. But that, after all, is what Matahari Terbit means. Sunrise Beach. Nonetheless, it is easy to find a table in the shade, where you can enjoy a morning coffee and the novel you brought, and maybe even a cookie or a pastry as well. And there you have the sound of the ocean waves crashing into the rocky shore, a sound rather reminiscent of the Oregon coast. The rest of Sanur lies on a quiet bay. It's nice to hear the sea lifting its voice a bit higher for a change. 

The Dry Season

Sometimes one looks up and takes note of where he is. In the span of my immediate vision is the open paperback book I am reading, the God of the Woods, a tabletop, a coffee cup, an ashtray and a lit cigarette, the sand at my feet. My eyes tire at the end of a chapter. I glance up and find, somewhat to my surprise, the vast blue shoreline of the ocean as it inhales the last of the sunlight this day, the white waves rolling in, a freighter ship just beyond the reef, its orangish flank catching the sun from bow to stern. A woman walks by on the beach path pushing a baby carriage, white blouse, black swimsuit bottoms, black hair fluttering in the breeze like a pirate flag, pretty still, but not a girl any longer. A woman now. The green leaves on the low branches of the short trees watch over the brown leaves as they fall. The dry season will soon tear up and turn to rain, and everything will grow again.

Dragnet

Recently, the Indonesian police did sort of a nationwide dragnet for traffic law enforcement. In Bali, a total of 783 motorists were caught in the net, having broken some kind of traffic rule, from no helmet, to no license, to no registration and so on. Of this number, 221, or less than one-third, were committed by foreigners. Curiously, however, only 107 Indonesians received a ticket, many merely receiving a warning, while almost all of the foreigners were ticketed. Put another way, roughly 70% of all traffic tickets during the operation in Bali were issued to foreigners.

Hmm.

Well, it's kind of an old story, I guess. Leniency for locals, severity for foreigners. But hey, it's their country and I guess they have more of a right to break their own laws then we have. I mean, they are the ones who came up with the laws in the first place, right? That should count for something.

Name Games

The Banjar in my area of South Sanur--Banjar translating to something like Balinese neighborhood association--has decided that it will be fun, culturally relevant, and also required, to change the name of my little street from Blok A to something more descriptive, more exotic, more Balinese and, in my mind anyway, more trouble than it is worth, for this is bound to further confound our already confounded postal system and mail carriers. As it is, the streets of Sanur defy any logic of pattern, scrawled as they are across the terrain like a 5-year-old's finger painting project--and an incompetent 5-year-old at that. And now you want to give him new paint?

A number of street names have been suggested, which I am sure would be lovely were they pronounceable, and the residents of the street have also been invited to submit their own suggestions. 

I think that Blok Goblok would be fitting. 

That's a joke, by the way, because Goblok is Indonesian slang for stupid.

Furthermore, the Banjar decided last month that they would begin requiring a monthly fee from every household in their jurisdiction. The amount of the fee, as outlined in the proclamation they sent around to each house, depends upon the type of residence and the category that best describes the residents. You may be a single person in a single dwelling, or you may be a family, you may be renting by the month, or you may be renting longer term under contract. Each category has a different fee. 

The fee for a single person living in a single dwelling was stated as 10,000 rupiah per month. This comes to about 61 cents USD. Not bad. 

However, the rules proved not so simple as written on their own paper when the Banjar representative came to collect. We argued back and forth for the longest time, I continually pointing at the pertinent paragraph regarding single occupancy, and he pointing everywhere else. Finally, it occurred to the pleasant though persistent official that he could not win an argument against his own document. So he compromised, and changed the document. 

Oh sorry, sorry, he said. That's a mistake. Haha. It is supposed to say 20,000, not 10,000.

Upon which he withdrew a pen from his pocket and substituted a 2 for the 1 in 10,000. Presto, 20,000. See how that works? 

Ah well, it's still next to nothing. But it's the principle of the thing, man! The principle!

Brat Pig

There is a boy in my neighborhood, a toddler really, who is truly the naughtiest child I have ever met. Or maybe naughty is not the right word. Deranged might fit. My girlfriend calls this boy Brat Pig, I suppose in dubious honor to Brad Pitt. 

Brat Pig's main interest in life seems to be in tormenting the dogs. The boy races up and down the street on one or another of his little tricycles (he seems to have a garage full of the things, bringing out a new model every time I turn around), running over the dogs, or trying to anyway. They are generally pretty good at leaping out of the way. But he pursues them relentlessly, and when they come into the front patio of my house, he dismounts and pursues them on foot. 

For some reason, he is intent upon kicking or hitting the dogs, as if it were they who had been naughty and not him. And when he is not hitting them, he is trying to spit on them instead. It's as if the boy has some kind of demon. 

My great fear is that he is going to get bit, because while the dogs are for the most part heroically tolerant, they are, after all, dogs, and half wild dogs at that, compared to the civilized dogs of America. They are street dogs. They have not a particular home, but go from house to house on the street, seeking food, shelter, companionship, a place to sleep. 

I have tried to teach Brat Pig how to be kind to dogs, how to pet them, how to approach them, when not to approach them (when they are eating, for example). I supervise, and watch him while he pets them for a time, but he soon returns to slugging them again, or yanking a tail, or poking an eye, or pulling on an ear. And the dogs don't really appreciate this. And so off they flee, Brat Pig on their tail like a bat out of hell on a tricycle. 

Sometimes, he just walks up and down the street screaming like a girl. Has something actually upset him, or is this a war cry? Cry havoc! And let loose the dogs of war. Or in this case, the boys.

I keep wondering what's wrong with Brat Pig.. Is there something happening in his home? Is he mirroring a type of behavior that he sees? Is he attention seeking? Or is he just a natural born little fanatic? A budding serial killer perhaps. They say that one thing most serial killers have in common at a young age is cruelty to animals. 

In any case, my patiece, dog-eared, one might say, at the ripe old age of 71, wears thin, and I have taken to merely shutting the door when the Brat is nearby. It's not that I don't care about him. It's just that I care more about the dogs, who indeed often opt for being shut inside with me.

Sleepless in Jakarta

A couple of weeks ago now, I traveled alone from Bali to Jakarta to meet my girl friend there. It was quite the challenging adventure for me (the traveling part, I mean) because I had not traveled alone since 2005. I have been on trips here and there to various locations in Southeast Asia, but these required no more thought on my part than would be required of a suitcase. I just rolled along behind whomever was in charge, first Louis, and then Evelyn. Now, however, it would be necessary for me to navigate the airport alone, pass through the appropriate gates and checkpoints, and to actually arrive at and embark upon the proper flight. 

As it turned out, this went more smoothly than I had expected it would. I discovered that there are actually signs in airports, big, bold lettered signs that tell you where to go and what to do. I had arrived at the airport 3 hours early, just to be on the safe side, and ended up having plenty of time to spare. In short, I arrived in the appropriate city at the appropriate time and met Evelyn waiting for me in the Jakarta airport.

Evelyn herself had been called to Jakarta several days earlier at the request of her youngest daughter, a college student there, who was suffering from some sort of sleep disturbance. I guess separation anxiety might best describe the problem. You see, she is used to being around people all the time, her friends and her boyfriend, and does not sleep alone. But finding herself on her own, her boyfriend and her friends having gone home during the school holiday to visit their families, Monica began having panic attacks. 

So, mom to the rescue. 

Evelyn had rented for us a cheap apartment in a tall building full of equally cheap apartments, not because either of us likes cheap apartments, but because we cannot afford expensive ones. This apartment was very basic, with a small front room, a small kitchen, a smaller bathroom with tiny cockroaches hiding here and there, and two bedrooms, one featuring a horribly uncomfortable bed and the other and even horriblier uncomfortable bed.

On the first night, we were stuck with the horriblier one. I awoke at some hour in the middle of the night and realized that Evelyn was gone. Having someone in the next room had proven insufficient medicine for Monica's night terrors.

I went back to sleep, only to awake early in the morning feeling very uncomfortably hot. This, I noted, was due to the fact that suddenly the air conditioning unit in the bedroom was not running. I pointed this out to Evelyn when she awoke, and she said Oh, yeah, Monica turned it off. 

Hah?

Well, you know, she explained, the motor for the AC is right outside of Monica's room and it is very loud. So she turned it off. 

All righty then. 

The plan for the next night was to move Monica into our room with the horriblier bed, while we would take her room with the deafening AC noise.

All seemed well as night fell and slumber overtook us, and yet in the middle of the night, hour unknown, I awoke once again, this time to a whispering noise. (How I had managed to hear this whispering over the purported roaring of the AC motor remains unclear).

It was a whispering, and then a dim shape in the night--someone, or some thing hovering above my girlfriend's head. As my eyes adjusted a bit to the dimness of night, I could make out what looked like long black hair, the shape of a head, the suggestion of a face, all accompanied by this whispering sound. I don't know why, but I was reminded of the Japanese ghost in the movie The Grudge, which is something that always gives me my own sort of night terrors.

Filled with dread, I sank lower into the already sinking mattress, expecting that at any moment the horrifying apparition might take notice of me, head twitching in my direction. With a hiss from its lips, the thing would advance in the air and hover over me before I could react, before I could scream, before I could flee. Whispering, whispering, whispering. 

My God! What did it want?

And yet next I saw Evelyn stir beneath the creature, mutter indistinctly, and then rise from the mattress as noiselessly as air, and float trance-like out of our room behind the dark and ghastly figure, helplessly captive to its every command.

Stated less dramatically, and in the light of day, the plan for night number two had not been successful, and Evelyn had gone again to join Monica, this time in the other room with the horriblier bed. 

One might have thought it would be easiest by this time, on the third night, for Evelyn to simply go to bed with Monica to begin with. But no, Evelyn had come up with plan C. In this arrangement, the overly noisy AC units in the bedrooms would be turned off while the slightly quieter one in the front room would be left on at the coldest setting. The door to our room would be left open, such that the cooling air from the AC could enter, while Monica would sleep with her light on and her own door closed.

Naturally, this attempt also was in vain, and quite naturally so, really, for the problem from the beginning had always been separation anxiety. 

But aside from these restless night adventures, we had an enjoyable week-long stay in the big city. I mean, as far as anyone can enjoy the stifling heat of the place. It is always cloudy, you know, in Jakarta. Or smoggy, I should say. I'm sure the sun is up there somewhere beyond the gray cotton-like barrier of pollution. We were in the Central Park section of the city, which features a sprawling mall many blocks long and several stories high. This is a particularly convenient circumstance, because traveling anywhere else in Jakarta can take hours in the tangled traffic. They say that the city is gradually sinking, which is probably all for the best. But in the meantime, one may as well enjoy the endless shops and eating establishments in the mall complex.

Jakarta, July 2025

K

Cuckoo Indeed

 It was interesting to reread Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest after all these years. Yes, it's a bit dated, with its emphasis on "the establishment" and other popular buzzwords / ideas of the time, but it is still an entertaining and an essential read, an examination of individuality and conformity, of how people are supposed to be, according to the authorities anyway, and how people really are. And I was surprised to realize that McMurphy is actually a Christ figure, which is something I missed when I first read the book many years ago, because I was quite young then and I was not aware of how great writers fold these themes into their narratives. The translation from English to Indonesian was also very well done and provided footnotes for matters or expressions that might be completely foreign to Asiatic readers. I'm going to share this novel around my Indonesian friends. I think they will find it quite enjoyable.

Faceplant

 I've mentioned here before that I have a problem with the right side of my body. A neurologic problem combined with spinal disc problems which has caused muscle atrophy in my arm and leg so that the right side is significantly thinner and weaker than the left. This causes problems with gait of course, which is exacerbated by balance problems arising  from MS in general. My right foot tends to drag while my right calf freezes up. This combination of difficulties sometimes results in a fall. 

Which is what happened today. 

I had stopped by the cookie store on Jalan Danau Tamblingan, dismounted from my bike and was stepping up the curbing when my right foot failed to raise itself sufficiently high. The forefoot caught on the curbing and I pitched forward into a fall. A full body fall, you know? A total faceplant. 

Now the interesting thing I want to mention here is not the fall itself but the reaction of the people nearby. The bules, i.e. the white people, the tourists passing by deftly stepped around me, such that they wouldn't step on me, and went on their way, while the nearby Indonesians exclaimed "Oh no!" and rushed over to where I lay. Two motorbikes stopped by the curbing. "Kamu ga apa-apa Pak? (are you okay, sir?).

I experience a combination of embarrassment and amazement--amazed still, even after 15 years here, that people care. Some people care. Certain people care. 

And it strikes me that this is in large part what we have lost in the West--a common sort of civility, a shared concern, a sense of community. They move aside, they turn their eyes away, they don't want to be involved. He shouldn't be so clumsy. Maybe he's drunk. In any case, it's his problem, not ours.

Of course I'm okay. I cut my forearm and a couple of fingers, and it looked worse than it really was, given that the blood thinner I have to take makes me bleed very easily and rather excessively.

Injured, embarrassed, but thankful, and newly appreciative of where I am.

Satu Terbang dari Sarang Burung Kukuk

Often, or I should say usually, a trip to the Gramedia bookstore is frustrating and pointless. I have never seen so many stacks of rotten books that no one would want to read. Well, no one except maybe a teen girl who is into girl meets boy stories. One need not even pick these up and look at the description. It is clear by the picture on the front of the book. Most often one comes away with nothing, or on other occasions he picks up a book that he hopes will be worthwhile, but is disappointed upon actually reading the book. This happened with The Mysterious Island, an old Jules Verne novel. They have a number of these translations of Western titles, you see. I actually read and greatly enjoyed some Jules Verne as a youngster. Journey to the Center of the Earth, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. But folks, the Mysterious Island is terrible in any language. Not terrible in a good way, but terribly boring. I got only as far as 200 pages or so before I quit the lousy thing and took it for a donation to the used bookstore. 

Nonetheless, on my last few visits I have found some quite worthwhile reading. I found an Indonesian translation of The Grapes of Wrath for instance, which I have already spoken of here. I also found intermezzo, by Sally Rooney. I had previously read Normal People in English by Rooney and was not a fan. But I found Intermezzo engaging, despite it's very dense prose. It can be daunting to look at pages of solid print without interruption, especially in a foreign language, but I forged through and, as I've said, was glad of it. 

Now most recently I have found an Indonesian language version of Ken Kesey's One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest. Of course I read this in English many years ago, and, like everyone else, I have seen the movie (several times, like many of us); nonetheless, the novel is fresh and greatly entertaining. It is somewhat difficult to detach oneself the picture of Jack Nicholson in the role of McMurphy, because while his performance in the movie was amazing, the character of McMurphy is a bit different in the novel. For one thing, he has red hair 😉

I also read recently about a novel by Olga Tokarczuk called the Books of Jacob based on the weird life and times of 18th century self-proclaimed messiah Jacob Frank. This interests me because it reminds me of a another self-proclaimed messiah, whose name I have forgotten, that my son, during a certain period in his life, was rather obsessed with. I would like to know more about it, more about what he saw or understood or misunderstood, whatever the case, as this messiah seems to have had many things in common with the other. I find that the PeriPlus bookstore here in Indonesia has this title, and I am tempted to order it; however the price is 500,000 rupiah, which is not cheap. I wonder if anyone out there is familiar with this novel?

Photos 2

 I find in trying to add photos of Hong Kong to my previous post of Hong Kong photos, that once again my blog will not interact with my phone, this time in edit mode. So hell, I'll just make a new post with some more pictures.

Popcorn

I actually got popcorn today to watch the massive protests across the country along with Trump's deserted birthday parade 😅

Photos

I finally figured out how to upload photos from my phone to my blog. Here are some from my trip to Hong kong. But I still don't know know how to change or add pictures on the sidebars, because my phone is not communicating with my laptop.

Medical Report

 I was trying to keep track the other day of all the health problems I have had in the last couple years, for posterity, ya know, and I came up with this list: 

1. Lacunar stroke

2. Sinus infection

3. Eye infection

4. Eye virus

5. Hernia surgery

6. Stomach virus

7. Multiple herniated discs in back and neck

Impressive, isn't it? I reckon bad health is the one thing I've done well in life. 

I'm doing physical therapy for the back problem, but it's a real drag. Not the physical therapy, but the back and neck pain. The physical therapy is mostly pleasant, but I don't know that it is helping much. 

Okies

They say the damn Okies are filthy and stupid. They have no morals. They are sexual maniacs. They are thieves. They will steal anything. They don't understand the concept of possession.

--The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck

Remind you of anything? Does a word come to mind which might replace Okies in our present day conversation? 

How about this: 

They are killers and rapists. They are lunatics, released from jails and asylums, criminals, the the worst of the worst.

Bad hombres.

Most of all, they are not us. 

Hungry, desperate, ragged, pitiful, and hopeful, they came in the early 1930s from the dust bowl, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Kansas, Missouri, Mississippi and elsewhere, out of financial ruin, looking for a better life, looking for honest work, dreaming modest dreams, only to be rejected by those who already possessed the dreams, for greed knows no greater foe then the want of others.

They came a thousand miles over their own trail of tears to find that the doors of bounty were locked against them and that the green paradise of California and all of its fruits were not to be had by the likes of them.

Killers, rapists, thieves, criminals.

Farmers, harvesters, mechanics, laborers.

Men, women, children, babies.

Suffering, hoping, dreaming, starving, dying. 

Go back where you came from, they were told. Or by God we will send you back by force.

Because you are not us.