Happy Halloween

I am currently reading a book called The Curse of the Wendigo, by Rick Yancey - the exceptional author of a number of young adult novels. 

The wendigo is part of the traditional belief system of a number of Algonquin-speaking peoples, including the Ojibwe, the Saulteaux, the Cree, the Naskapi, and the Innu people. Although descriptions can vary somewhat, common to all these cultures is the view that the wendigo is a malevolent, cannibalistic, supernatural being. He appears to be a mix between a four-legged animal and a humanoid being. It is said that the Wendigo relentlessly hunts and eats people (and people only), and that the more it eats, the hungrier it grows. 

Such legendary creatures, under different names, but with similar characteristics, are said to have stalked the forests of the Pacific Northwest as well.

So, here's a little Halloween story. 

One late summer day, my father was fishing one of the high cascade lakes -- a lake without a name, like many others that can be found in the dense forests there. Generally, there is no trail that leads to these lakes. You just have to know they are there, and which creek bed will take you to them. This particular unnamed lake is about 3/4 of a mile above Monon Lake, which is by the side of the dirt road that leads from Olallie to Brietenbush. 

When my father returned to the cabin that evening, he seemed rather more quiet than usual. He was never a noisy man to begin with, except when he had too much to drink, but this night, he was unusually quiet, and somehow tense, distracted, as he went about the task of cleaning his catch of trout. 

My mother noticed this straightaway. She watched him for a time, then asked what was wrong. 

"Wrong?" he said. 

"I can see that something is bothering you," my mother pressed. 

"Well ... " 

My father put his knife on the table, and then kind of stared at it, as if whatever was wrong might have something to do with the knife. He picked up his pipe and filled it with tobacco, not even thinking to wash the fish off of his hands first. 

"Well?" my mother prodded. 

He smiled, rather thinly, rather hesitantly. My father was a mathematician, a teacher, a realist, a no-nonsense sort of guy, and he was about to say something nonsensical. Thus the sheepish smile, which itself seemed ready to collapse into a grimace.

"I saw something today," he said. "Up at the lake. The one above Monon. Just on the other side -- and, you know, that other side isn't more than a stone's throw away." He held a match above the pipe bowl, chewing at the stem. The red glow winked off his spectacles and the smoke rose to the air tentatively. "It was some kind of animal, I reckon. Well ... it had to be, didn't it. And yet it wasn't like any other animal I've seen in my life, or in all my years in these woods. It wasn't a deer -- too large. It wasn't an elk, either, though maybe the same height. It wasn't a bear -- not bulky enough. And it certainly wasn't any kind of cat or wolf. And it wasn't the right color for ... for anything. A reddish sort of color. A burnt reddish, soiled copperish thing. And sometimes it stood like a person, and sometimes it went down on all fours. I just kept thinking, what in the world can this be? And it just didn't feel right. Not right at all. I can tell you that I got out of there just as soon as it slunk back into the trees."

We waited. He struck another match. Puffed at his pipe, seeming relieved, somehow, to have spoken. 

"Well, what was it!" my mother demanded. 

He shook his head, smiled thinly once again. 

"I have no idea whatsoever," he said. "I've never seen anything like it. Nor have I ever been looked upon by any animal like that thing that stood there and looked upon me. And I can tell you this -- I'll never go up there again."

As far as I know, my father never did go to that lake again. And he never spoke of the lurking, staring thing again. Years later, after he had passed away, I visited the lake myself. It took several tries to find it, choosing one wrong creek bed and then another throughout one blistering August day. I did finally find it, emerging from the woods just at the southern tip of the small green lake. Not much more than a pond, really. The forest crowded in all along the shore, right up to the edge, dropping needles and cones into the dead of the shallows. I saw not a living thing -- no frog, no salamander, no bird, no fish. And I saw no nameless creature, lurking amid the huckleberry and blueberry bushes or beneath the sagging cedar limbs. 

But then again ... Perhaps it saw me. And I sometimes wonder if it sees me still. 

Holy Cow

Holy cow! I was just now accosted by a fat woman. I was walking up to Casablanca and this woman wanted to give me a massage. A special massage, of course. I said, No ma’am I dont want no massage, and tried to move on, but she actually grabbed my arm and pulled me back. And she was freakin strong, man! I said No, no, I’m jest meetin a friend at the bar. That’s when she started to grab my private parts For a wobbly old man like me, it actually took some physical effort to extricate myself ... and she was no spring chicken herself! But she had the weight on me, ya know. Whew. Now I’m tryin to figure how to get back to my bike unmolested

To the Reader

I don't really know who all reads this little journal of mine. Most of you, I am not acquainted with. There are a few, however, whom I do know, and it is to these folks that I would like to make a few comments about how a writer writes -- or at least how I write. 

Some things are fairly straightforward stories of actual events. Perhaps a name has been changed, or a detail added, or a detail omitted, but they are presented as occurrences that interested me, or that I found amusing. Slices of life. 

There are other things, little impressionistic paragraphs, that come almost as if they had been dictated. I write these paragraphs very quickly, hardly thinking at all. Or let us say that the thoughts simply come through the movements of my fingers. These may be melancholy or morose or pensive. They may be joyful. They may be a product of praise or prayer. Each shines a little light, for a passing moment, on something in particular. And that is what I want to convey: that they are passing thoughts, particular pieces of something, and not in any sense the whole of the thing. 

Life is complicated, and gives itself over to multiple narratives; and the writer, in particular, is open to multiple voices. He is moody, sometimes melodramatic, sometimes harsh, sometimes generous. He writes both what should be written and should not be written, and oftentimes does not know the difference between the two. He talks to himself, and the words talk back to him, and he tends to forget that anyone other than he is aware of the words. 

One writes because he has to write. He cannot not write. Through writing, he seeks to understand his own story. He turns it this way and that, such that one side reflects the light and another is necessarily in darkness. 

The writer tends to be given over to drama, for the heart is a dramatic organ. It feels, it leaps, it despairs, it wants, it regrets, it rejoices -- and it looks for words. 

But they are, don't forget, only words. 

Lessons in English

Dharma is the resident expert in English at Starbucks in Renon. The language is part of his studies at university toward a degree in tourism management. 

Strangely, however, I have noticed that Dharma very rarely uses English. And by 'very rarely', I mean to say 'never'. 

So I've decided to try to encourage him. 

This evening's conversation: 

"Hello, Dharma."

"Hello."

"Are you having a good day today?"

"No."

"I see. Well, what will you do after work?"

"I go home." 

Oh well. It's a start. 

A Conversation

Irni is originally from Sumatra but now she is living in Bali and has been working at the On-On Bar for a little more than a year.

Six and seven years ago, On-On was a bustling establishment on Jalan Danau Poso, situated right next to another bustling bar called Angel's. The crowd in both bars would often be shoulder to shoulder, with people standing where no seats were available.

Now, both bars are very quiet. New bars have shouldered in on the opposite side of the street, and many more new bars, clubs and restaurants have sprung up all along the main drive in Sanur, from Poso to Tamblingan. The customers are spread as thin as butter on a diabetic's slice of toast. 

Erni is standing on the open sidewalk along with her coworker, who is Balinese and whose name I cannot remember. The coworker is pretty, except for her buck-teeth, and thin, and has a large, blotchy tattoo on one arm. Erni herself is heavyset, with a pretty face and a charming white smile. 

We speak in Indonesian, and she seems happy to converse with a customer for a change. Among the English words she knows, she tells me, are "What's up?" and "Good-day" and "What's new?"

"And mate," I suggest. 

"Oh, ya ... Mate. Like friend, yes?"

She tells me she misses home because it has been more than a year since she has seen it. She has come to Bali, naturally, in order to make money, which she may then send back to her family. This plan, though a common one, has yet to be proven lucrative. 

I tell her that I have not been home in 7 years. 

"Where are you from? Australia?"

"God forbid. No, I'm from America."

"Oh! South America or North America."

"The United States of America." 

"Oh! Ya. Hollywood! New York City!"

"Exactly."

"How many languages do they speak there?"

"Only a couple. Most people speak English, but quite a few speak Spanish, too." 

"Here in Indonesia there are many languages. Every island has a language, and some islands have more than one language. But everyone can speak the common language, Indonesian. When I first came to Bali, I didn't understand what people were saying, because they were speaking Balinese. I never heard that before. I still don't understand it."

"I don't either." 

"And you have a family here in Bali?"

"I did, but not any more."

"No wife?"

"Yes and no. How about you. Married? Children?"

"No, not yet."

"Really? But how old are you?"

"Thirty-three."

"And no husband?"

"No." She looks sad. "I had a boyfriend. We were together for five years. But then he broke my heart."

Irni's friend moves closer and puts a hand on her shoulder. A tear slips from Irni's left eye, and she smiles and shakes her head. 

"He had other girlfriends," she explains. "You know, behind my back. The whole time, there were other girls. He said he would come here to be with me, but then he stayed with his girlfriend in Sumatra. He broke my heart." She puts her hand on her broken heart. "It still hurts. It is quite broken."

"Things will get a little better every day," I suggest. 

"And you know what? Then, a month ago, he broke up with his girlfriend, and so he called my phone and said he wanted me back! But I'm not stupid. Not anymore. I was stupid, but now I'm not."

"People like that never change," I suggested. 

"I know! That's why! Now I look for the good man."

"A lot of competition there," I say. 

"What do you mean." 

"Well, I mean, there seems to be a lot of girls looking for the good man."

"Oh. Yeah. You know what? Maybe he doesn't even exist."

Shut Down

Something I have noticed about MS, or about me, or about me in combination with MS is that sustained conversations can often be exhausting. I suppose that's partly because I'm making the extra effort to use a foreign tongue; but, even in English, I find that I will soon tire, soon begin to feel dull and overheated, like conversation is too large a demand on my brain. I spoke today with Iadi for a prolonged period of time at Starbucks (and, you see, the word "prolonged" comes to mind, although in fact it was only for the duration of his break time), and by the time we were done talking, I felt curiously empty, fatigued, like I needed a nap! When Hendra came out for his own break, I found myself barely able to speak any further. There were the usual conversational openings, but I let them pass. All I could think of was how much effort it would take to go into any detail or at any length. 

A similar thing happens when there are too many people speaking at the same time -- like more than two, I mean. Including myself. Words seem to get all entangled together in the air, crowding and pushing at one another, such that the flow of conversation cannot be followed. I try, but I soon give up -- closing my ears to the din, and speaking only if addressed directly by one voice. 

When overloaded, the MS brain becomes overheated, like a leaky radiator in a car. It chugs along, trying to keep running, but ultimately kind of shuts down, waits for a refreshing drought of quiet and rest. 

In short, the MS sufferer will rarely be the 'life of the party'. :) 

Sun

I've been taking the advice lately of the masseuse I saw last week -- namely, that I should get as much sun on my back as possible in order to reduce the pain. And I must say that the practice seems to be having a positive effect. 

Do not imagine, however, that sunning in Bali is a very pleasant affair. It is difficult to rightly describe the intensity of the heat here. Certainly, one needs first to apply sunblock, and take care to cover the most tender, white skin, such as that on the upper thighs. 

You may then sit beneath the sun and virtually cook. Beads of sweat soon gush from every uncovered area, and begin to run like trickling streams down your neck and back. Your torso glows with sweat and sweat glistens on the hairs on your arms.

You begin to think about a cold shower ... but wait, five more minutes, then five more minutes again.

It is a certain sort of torture; and yet, you note that the painful muscles have begun to relax and that comfort with movement has begun to return.

So that's the treatment plan at present -- Xanax at night, sun in the day. And then a trip to Starbucks in the evening to write down whatever comes into my well-baked brain.