Kunyit Putih

I happened to receive a phone call this morning from my pharmacist down in Sanur--quite unexpectedly, really, as I had not talked to her in quite some time. I had been waiting for an order for gabapentin, as I now recall, which she had long been unable to obtain from her supplier, and I had kind of just forgotten about it. Why had I wanted gabapentin? Well, surely it must have been connected to the neuropathic pain I had long been experiencing (not that gabapentin had done much good for that in the past, in any case). 

Well, having her on the phone anyway, it occurred to me to ask whether she could recommend something other than Panadol for a headache. Panadol is what passes for aspirin in Indonesia, and is quite ineffective for headache pain or any other sort of pain. I had been getting Advil from Australia, thanks to the kindness of friends there, but had run out of my supply. As far as I was aware, Advil (ibuprofen) is not available in Indonesia, but it turns out that my knowledge was faulty. Yes, she said, she could get ibuprofen, either 200 or 400 mg. 

My lucky stars! 

So, I went on down to Sanur later in the day and met the apoteker in the apotek--which is to say that I met the pharmacist in the pharmacy. I still don't know the woman's name. It's a difficult one, as Indonesian names go. Still, I really ought to learn her name, as she is a very pleasant, very helpful woman who has always done her best to satisfy my requests, or to make her own suggestions based on symptoms. 

Of course, as with all Indonesian businesses, one doesn't just go in and buy something. One goes in and exchanges pleasantries and converses for a while and then buys something. As it happened, therefore, the conversation moved toward new experiences and interests--such as cancer and the threat of amputated ears. My goodness!

"I have something for that," she said. "Very popular with the Australians who come here. Every time they visit, they buy another bottle." 

It's called kunyit putih (and is, in other words, white turmeric)--a traditional medicine, the package insert tells us, which is very beneficial for the treatment of cancers and tumors. Of course, we who have MS already know that turmeric is also thought to be helpful for the disease. 

Again, my lucky stars. 

So I bought that, and the gabapentin, and the ibuprofen, and the subject turned to relationship status. 

"How is your wife?" 

"I no longer have a wife."

"Oh really!"

"Yes, nearly one year now."

"But what happened?" 

"She ran off with an Australian." 

"Ahhh!" The sort of 'ahhh' that says 'That figures, we all know how these Australians are!). "Well," she continued, "It just so happens that I am also in the process of divorce." 

"Oh really!" 

"Yes." 

"Your husband--I mean, your ex--is a bule, right." 

"A Jerman," she specified, accenting a distaste, or so it sounded, for all people of that nationality at this point. 

What could I say? 

"Yes, a German," I echoed, with a stress on germ. 

"Wanted a young woman," she said. "A girl."

"Indonesian?" 

"Yes, of course." 

"Of course." 

"Ah well, no more problems," I reassured her. "Just happy now, peaceful. A new start for you. Let the German have his girl." 

"That's right, Papa. You're absolutely right. No more troubles!"

"Except for the cancer." 

"Haha! That's right. Except for the cancer. But take one pill a day before dinner, Papa. And everything will work out just fine." 

Not So Magic Cancer Cream

It's hard to tell actually whether this cancer cream is making my skin cancer better or worse. Of course, it's not bound to do much at all where the ear is concerned, given that the cancer there is in the form of tumors within the body of the ear, but the one on my face--the dry, scaly, sometimes itchy, sometimes painful, sometimes white, sometimes red thing on my cheek bone--seems some days to improve with the cream and some days to worsen with it. Perhaps it would be the same with or without the cream. Who knows? I suppose I was hoping for a miracle cure. But cancer is cancer, right? It doesn't like being cured. So whereas a couple of days ago the blotch on my face had turned white and nearly invisible, now it is red as a traffic light. Kind of a scabby traffic light. Well, if it ain't one thing, it's t'other. The good news, anyway, is that I didn't have to pay for this cream. I'd be pissed, at this point, if I had. 

Xmas Movies

As has been my habit during the holiday season, and because I have nothing more pressing to do, I've been watching a lot of old Christmas movies for the umpteenth time. So far I've viewed several old Scrooges, a couple Miracles on 34th Street, Elf, The Man in the Santa Claus Suit, It Came Upon A Midnight Clear (with Mickey Rooney), and, of course, A Charlie Brown Christmas and the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. 

My favorite Scrooge is the George C. Scott rendition from 1984,  who seems both much more seriously gruff and scroogey than others and also more fully human. The more recent portrayal by "Captain Picard" (of Star Trek New Generation Renown) seems the worst to me, totally flat and uninvolved. And Albert Finney in the musical version is just a bit too much. The whole thing is a bit too much (especially for one like myself who is not a fan of musicals to begin with), although I do get a kick out of his "I Hate People" song. 

I cannot get my favorite version of Miracle on 34th Street, with Maureen O'Hara and a very young Natalie Wood, this year for some reason. Seems that every site either doesn't work, wants to send you to another site, or wants you to pay. Same thing with the Bill Murray version of Scooge (Scrooged). Bummer. 

One thing that is new this year, however, is that the increasingly familiar "pseudobulbar effect" is regularly kicking in. As the reader may remember, this is an odd symptom associated with multiple sclerosis wherein one finds himself at the mercy of excessive tears or excessive laughter without a sufficient trigger. It is sometimes described as inappropriate laughter or crying that comes without any trigger at all, but I can't really get a handle on that description. I mean, it seems that one would always be able to find some little sort of trigger, and it seems also that just a little thing on the outside can touch a substantial trigger within the great grab bag of the soul's conflicts and joys and sorrows. 

Nonetheless, when I find myself weeping uncontrollably over Tiny Tim's little crutch in the chimney corner, I understand that something's gone a bit haywire. Especially considering that I've known about that little crutch for the past 60 years or so. And it's like this with every one of these shows. The more maudlin it is, the more weepy I become. I mean, I even cry during the Charlie Brown Christmas! I am thankful, therefore, to be alone in my little house before my little laptop screen. My goodness, what would people in a crowded movie theater think of me? 

The Weather Outside is Frightful (but it always has been)

Sitting outside with a cup of coffee this evening, I noted a single winged termite--a laron--flutter down from the heaven. This was noted also by a sharp-eyed, fleet-footed lizard, which immediately skittered up the wall to swallow this first morsel among the many to come. As always, as an introduction to these buggy flurries, the air had grown heavy, tense, portentous--the tropical version, perhaps, of the unstable chill that precedes a snow flurry. Another bug, and another fluttered down, and another and another lizard appeared on the ceiling and wall. Soon the air was swirling with termites, sifting down silently as snowflakes (although you would not want to catch these on your tongue). A light breeze picks up, drifting the bugs and their gossamer brown wings into crooks and corners, closely pursued by cicak. Somewhere off to the west, I think, a man in a mosque is wailing the Muslim call to prayer. Were this downfall from the heaven snow, one would soon hear children singing out. But children don't run out to play when termites fall. This heat, this heaviness stifles such songs. It covers the mouth with a thick, humid palm, such that one feels he can barely breathe. I saw on a newscast today that the journalist Khashoggi's final words were that he could not breathe. How essential such simple blessings become, such that we in dire straits should give them expression, all of life reduced to a function, a need. Christ, near death, spoke of being thirsty. Neither could have believed that their tormentors would care or assist them, and yet so they spoke nonetheless. It is the crucial thing, the last necessary thing, the last factual thing. I cannot breathe. I thirst. And the curtain that falls is not of driven snow but is dingy and dim and permeates from skin to soul. The wailing has ceased, the prayer is done, as is the feast and the flurry of laron. The thing is done, they are said to have reported to their leaders by phone. It is finished. Silence now as fist over fist the heaven withdraws the brutal heat. Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit. 

Hark!

Clearly, the Balinese have not yet heard that explicitly religious Christmas music should not be played in public places. God luv 'em. Already since entering the mall this morning I've heard Angels We Have Heard On High, Hark The Herald Angels Sing, and Away In The Manger. Such beautiful songs; and, for me, the core of Christmas. And who would have thought that you'd have to come to a Hindu society on the other side of the world to hear them? It's about the only way that Bali feels more Christmassy than America. Then again, that's about the only way that really matters, when you come right down to it. 

Scone

I was preparing to leave the house this morning, given that a tornado was about to strike, which is to say that the maid would be arriving to do her one-day-a-week clean up job, when it occurred to me that I had a sudden craving for one of these oatmeal scones at Starbucks along with the usual latte. I talked myself out of this, however, reasoning that the extra cost was unnecessary and I could just have a bowl of Wheatbix at home anyway. Which I did. 

Well, when I got to Starbucks and ordered my latte, I found that my account qualified for a free Daily Planner and carrying case--a perfect Xmas present for the ex (as for myself, I don't plan my days, they plan me, and the plan is generally the same one day to the next). 

Moreover, when my latte was served, I was also given--guess what--a free oatmeal scone! Now how did they know that I had been craving an oatmeal scone?

So it's a good start to the day, I reckon.

Colorless Aristotle

For some time now I have been reading a book called The Last Superstition. This is intended at its core as a refutation of the new atheism (and the writings of its pop culture adherents such as Dawkins, Hitchens, Dennett, et al) and ends up being a long, exhaustive tour of the foundational philosophies of Plato and Aristotle and then of the theology of their Christian heirs, Augustine, Aquinas, Newton, Pascal, and so on. It's fascinating, informative, persuasive, but quite dense and demanding (unlike the rather shallow and often ill-informed arguments being refuted)--and so I have taken a break to return to Murakami.

Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage  (or, in Indonesian, Tsukuru Tazaki Tanpa Warna Dan Tahun Ziarahnya) is a book I have already read in English, and not so very long ago; but, thanks to my nearly nonexistent memory, which itself is thanks to MS, I am able to re-read it, this time in Indonesian, and be as entertained as the first time. I will gradually remember things as I read them, but they will seem new in the sense that they are being expressed in a different language. This gives 'colorless' Tazaki a new sort of color, so to speak, a different angle of appreciation. One wonders how different again he would be in the original Japanese (though of course I will never know, because I am far too old to  learn yet another language).  

Literally, the title in Indonesian, translated directly to English, is  "Tsukuru Tazaki Without Color And Years Pilgrimage". From this, one can see how you have to switch some gears and pull some levers in the mind to reform the language to the patterns you are accustomed to. It sounds backward to the native speaker of English; but, of course, English sounds backward to the native speaker of Indonesian. For me, it's a fascinating exercise--and a rewarding one, insofar as one, in immersing himself in the patterns of the foreign language in order to understand what is said in a novel, further familiarizes himself at the same time with the patterns he will hear among Indonesian speakers in every day life. 

I must say, however, that I would hate to have to try to read Plato and Aquinas in Indonesian, for they are quite sufficiently challenging enough in English!