Numb

I heard this morning a news commentator describe the current character of reaction to Donald Trump's ongoing circus of reprehensible remarks as "outrage fatigue". I had said something similar in a previous post. It seems that a person's stomach for outrage can hold just so much. It becomes something else. It becomes numbness. It becomes apathy. Time was when I would respond immediately to a reprehensible statement from Trump, expressing my disgust and disbelief so that I might receive in turn an acknowledgment from others, an agreement, a sharing of the sanity still active in the world. 

It is interesting to me that responses fell away first from my American acquaintances, my fellow countrymen and women, to whom, it seemed, this should have mattered most of all. It was the non-Americans here in Bali who clung longest to outrage--Lithuanian, Australian, British, German, Chinese, Indonesian. How is  it that they cared more than we? Is outrage easier from a great distance? Is outrage easier according to degree of separation? Or is the typical American simply more prone to apathy. It is said that historically in combat American soldiers, though better supplied and equipped than their opponents, have been more likely under pressure to fail in morale, to give up. Is this the trait now on display in the life of our nation? Have we become so feeble?

Or is the problem more that our outrage dies in the air, unreceived? Those whom we have placed in high positions have gone deaf. When even the officers cower and shrink away on the battlefield, is it any wonder that the soldiers throw up their hands in surrender?  

So I rarely comment now on our deplorable leader, for I too have become apathetic, and know now that nothing will be done, nothing will change. This is us. These are the limp and sagging United States of America, tired, listless, anemic, numb. Heartbreaking. 

Diet Plan

I was trying to map out an eating plan this morning suitable to my three major health problems--or let's not say problems (we don't say 'problems' these days)--let's say challenges--suitable, I say, to my three major health challenges (not counting old age)--high  blood pressure, borderline diabetes, and incurable fungal infection, and it quickly became apparent that I am to avoid pretty much all foods except lettuce. Well, lettuce and a few other non-nutritious additives, such as pepper and paprika. Although this seems a prescription for a less than mouth watering diet, it can be said, on the positive side, that it would definitely be a money saver, and moreover a labor saver as far as food preparation and clean-up are concerned. Really, one need not even use a plate or utensils, but just hold the head of lettuce in one hand and the pepper shaker in the other. No muss, no fuss. 

On the other hand, I have always found the view of a friend here compelling--to whit, that one should freely eat what one feels inclined at the moment to eat, trusting the advice of his own body on the matter. In other words, what it wants, it wants for a reason. If it is saying I need meat, eat meat. If it is saying I need a chocolate éclair, eat a chocolate éclair. It is a pleasing view to be certain, and a stress reliever, too. Nonetheless, I have to admit that, given my past experience in life, whenever I see a box of Fruit Loops, my body says it wants Fruit Loops. I cannot honestly suppose that a steady diet of Fruit Loops would be very healthy, despite whatever claims my body might make. 

The curious thing about this array of challenges, you see, is that what is allowed for the first is not allowed for the second, and what is allowed for the second is not allowed by the third. And so on, a vicious circle. And that is how we end up with lettuce. It seems that if my body has made any plan at all, it is to lay clever traps and, in this manner, eventually assassinate me. It is my own worst enemy.. 

So I guess the solution is to eat a balanced diet of everything that is not good for me (which, after all, is everything). Balanced, I mean, in the sense that an equality should be maintained between the various bad food substances, avoiding a lot of one bad substance at the expense of another. Along with as much lettuce as possible, or, rather, palatable. All of which means, as it turns out, that I won't need to change my present diet at all. 

Problem, I mean challenge, solved.  

A Discussion

I had the pleasure of conversing with my stepson, Sasha, for a few hours yesterday. He's a pensive, philosophically minded young man who speaks his mind on social issues with unapologetic fairness (which may sound like a contradiction in terms, but stand by).  It is his view (and mine) that social and professional intercourse in America in our times has been sadly corrupted by an invasive spirit of  political correctness, in school, in politics, in social interaction, in gender dynamics, in racial discourse, such that one must stay between the proper lines or risk instant and harsh censure.  This leads to a reductionism across the board such that thoughtful discussion is rendered feeble, confined as it is to certain predetermined boundaries and positions. Sasha described English teachers who impose feminist ideology, history professors who timidly teach Readers' Digest versions of complex historical periods and conflicts, social interactions that have been crippled by a sort of universal fear of stepping over the line, or of not knowing securely where exactly the line is. I would not want to be a young person having to operate  in this atmosphere, and neither does Sasha especially. He has a mind that is ready to test boundaries, to openly interrogate issues and attitudes, but of course he also wants to succeed academically and socially. To insist that literature and history conform to the brittle paranoia of present-day standards and sensibilities is the very best way to learn nothing about literature and history. And yet if you want to get those grades and move up the ladder, academically, professionally, socially, you'd better tow the line.

Old Times in Black and White

In an early 1950s episode of Ozzie and Harriett various people are coming down with a head cold, first Ozzie's son, Ricky, and then his neighbor, Thorny. David, Ricky's brother, is also given an injection of antibiotics (yes, injection) just in case. Of course, this is good for a laugh in hindsight because, no, antibiotics did not cure common colds in that time any more than they can in the present day. But it's interesting to see this take on a medication that was then quite new--a miracle drug. As Harriett tells Ozzie, who also seems to be coming down with the cold, "You'd better get to the doc right away and have an injection." Ozzie declines, swearing his undying allegiance to an amazing elixir used throughout his childhood by his own mother and drinks two bottles to prove his point. This turns out to be a mixture of ginger, sassafras and 20 percent alcohol, so that Ozzie is indeed perfectly happy with the treatment. It is little bits like this that make the show really more entertaining than it was in its own time (and, as I watch the episodes, especially the earlier ones, it was quite an entertaining show on its own merits). Aside from references to miracle cures and astounding new technologies (like the amazing new Hotpoint oven and range, for instance), there are countless chuckle worthy snippets of behaviors and beliefs that are now perfectly archaic--conventions of proper dress and etiquette, of the place of the woman, and of the man too for that matter, of overtly religious material, of expectations in courtship, and so on. Maybe that's why I like watching these old shows so much, for the layered dimensions of nostalgia, of a time and a way now as dim and grainy in memory as the screen on the black and white TV set. They are, in their own way, a record of the past that is more immediate, more accessible than that which one finds in the history book. 

Sasha

My stepson, Sasha, aka Patrik (the latter because Indonesians have a hard time pronouncing the word Sasha, just as is the case with Richard and my own substitute Will) has come to visit and will be in Bali for a month. Sasha formerly lived here, for about 5 years,with his mother and I, but returned to America several years ago to live with his natural father. It is always a pure joy when he comes to visit, as he has done every year since leaving, and I'm looking forward to doing a  lot of talking and laughing with him. We all got together yesterday at the Starbucks in Plaza Renon. 

Prism

One of the stories in Ted Chiang's collection, Exhalation, concerns a far future gadget called a prism, a gadget about the size of a present-day laptop, a quantum machine which, among other things, allows users to communicate with alternate selves who live in their own plane of possibility based on life choices made by the self using the prism. Of course, the alternate selves, whom as far as they are concerned on not alternate at all, are using their own prisms as well, without which no connection could have been made. 

Well, I had not set out to explain the quantum mechanics of Chiang's imagination, though in doing so, I've discovered an additional facet of Mr. Chiang's talent--that being the ability to make the ridiculous sound reasonable. But no, I meant to say that this story left me with some interesting thoughts about how we look back on our lives, how we regret certain things, how we sometimes idealize the choices we did not make. If only, you know? And were we fated in any case to make the choices we made? Are the results, whether positive or negative, a product of the choice itself or of own's own manner of handling things in life (any life).  

When we make one choice, we discard all others. These others have a life of their own--in Chiang's story as alternate selves on their own timeline; in real world terms as what we would be had we done things properly, or at least differently. In short, we have created living figments, ghosts, and are haunted by our own creations. 

It is, as I say, very difficult to describe the setting Chiang has created here, and, again, it leaves me with new appreciation for his particular talent. Come to think of it, he does this in quite a number of the stories contained in Exhalation, so that I am newly impressed when I consider the thing. Not that all of the stories in the collection are successful. They aren't. There are a few nearly perfect gems, and most of the rest at least give the reader something to ponder. In all, Chiang has invited us into alternate worlds that seem at the same time both wildly unlikely and eerily familiar.  

Speaking of ...

Speaking of Takut the dog, I've noticed that his ears, like Viana's, are tuned to the comings and goings of a particular motorbike. The only difference is that while Takut seems to readily identify the motor sound made by the bike he's watching for, Viana must duck at the sound of pretty much any bike. It also seems clear from their separate reactions that for Takut the sound of the bike is a welcome thing whereas for Viana it is something to avoid. When Takut hears the motor, he will hurry out the door and down the street, while Viana seeks to hide until it passes. It's a mystery. Who can this bike belong to? A father, a brother, an uncle? Why is Takut excited about seeing the owner while Viana avoids being seen? I asked Viana about it once, but she offered no meaningful answer. I've not bothered to ask Takut. 

And speaking of Viana, the girl seems to have disappeared. Haven't seen hide nor hair of her in a couple weeks. Perhaps someone has told her that the villa is a 'place of solitude' and that children (and dogs) are not welcome. Or maybe she's just busy with her little friends. Who knows? But I kind of miss the little brat. I hope that no one has gone out of their way to make her feel unwelcome or unwanted. There's nothing I hate more than unkindness to children.