Say What?

Boy I'll tell ya, every news day nowadays is a what the hell just happened news day. One kinda just sits there with his mouth hanging open as he scrolls through the phone. What happened to my country? What happened to its people? How is this possible? Or maybe my country never was what I thought it to be. Maybe I was just sheltered from what was really out there. Maybe most of us were sheltered from what was out there. Or maybe what was out there had simply rarely shown its face so openly. 

What is this about changing the Constitution with an executive order? The Constitution! Does Trump really believe that he can take a pen and scratch out a clause of the Constitution of the United States and add his own words? What happened to the Republican party, the party of conservatives, the defenders of the Constitution? 

What's going on?

Who are these people in the silly red hats reveling in their cheap circus atmosphere, cheering hate-speech, laughing at insults, roaring in approval at the suggestion that the press, the fourth estate, this time honored American tradition, is the 'enemy of the people'? 

What the hell is going on?  

The Caravan

Who are they?

They are people who believe in the American dream more strongly than we ourselves believe--for they have heard this said of America: 

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door. 

They are unarmed men, women and children--families. And we meet them at the border with 5000 heavily armed professional soldiers. The shame is ours, not theirs. 

They are hungry, poor, afraid, hopeful. They are not Middle Eastern terrorists. They are the terrorized. They are by and large Christian, their souls steeped in the Judeo-Christian narrative of exodus, coming out of Egypt, bound for the promised land. They're not looking for milk and honey, a free ride, stolen treasure, for they know more of hardship than most Americans will ever know and they have walked farther than most Americans will ever walk. They hope to work, to eat, to feed their children, to find peace and safety. 

And we meet them with 5000 soldiers. 

They are not bringing drugs, they are not bringing guns, they are not bringing bombs. We Americans have all those things already. They are not bringing money or cars or caviar or I-Pads or stereo systems or drones or personal household assistants, or any of these totems of our American dream. We already have those things, for all the good they do us. They are bringing destitution, hunger, in hopes of finding sustenance and safety. 

For they have heard this said: 

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. 

More on the Ear

A number of ideas being kicked around today regarding my skin/ear problem. First off, of course, we need to see if it is in fact cancer. Doctor seemed to think so, but biopsy will show for certain. If it is, no one seems to like the idea of staying with Kasih Ibu--and I can't blame 'em there. They've always seemed fairly incompetent in the past to me (I've just always gone there because it's closest and I'm lazy). The ex-wife is in favor of Singapore or Jakarta. A friend here says there are good hospitals in Bali (but they're not Kasih Ibu). I'm kind of in favor of pretending I never went to the doctor in the first place. Anyway, my ear pretty much hurts like hell at present because of the chunk the doctor took out of it for biopsy, and I have long since removed the incredibly bulky bandage he had applied, so that I can at least get my helmet on my head and go somewhere. Come to think of it, under the  circumstances, why am I particularly worried about hitting my head on the pavement, anyway? 

A Trip to the Hospital

Well, I finally broke down and went to the damn doctor about the non-healing wound on my ear. Sorry I did, now. Ignorance is bliss. Turns out that I likely do have skin cancer, and what's more chilling yet is that they will probably want to remove about a third of my ear. Not happy about that, because, frankly, I'm kinda attached to my ear; or at the very least, it is attached to me. They took a rather painful biopsy sample today (no anesthesia) and then plastered on a humongous bandage. Had a hell of a time getting my helmet on over that for the ride home.

So it's a kerfuffle. I have no insurance here, so anything that is done will be out of pocket. On the other hand, after the first of the year, I will have Medicare … but then, to use that, I would have to come to America and so pay the cost of coming to America (which would probably amount to far more than just having it done here). Then again, there is the general question of whether doctors here even know what the hell they're doing! The particulars of my visit to Kasih Ibu Hospital this morning are less than reassuring on that count. 

So, damn! 

I could just ignore the whole thing, I suppose. I mean, I got enough trouble already with MS, right? Who has time for ear cancer? 

The Screeching Halt

At some point in my life, I had given up on new music. Instead, I listened to the old stuff over and over again. Books were the same. I reread books from my past, often more than once, but ignored books that had just come out. Somewhere along the way, time seemed to have come to a screeching halt. 
--Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami

Well, it's true. I often find myself rereading books I have,already read, revisiting favorite movies from the past. Is this because books and movies used to be better? Probably not. I have found a handful of contemporary writers whom I am quite fond off--Haruki Murakami and Yu Hua to name two--and there have been some worthwhile movies, although I suppose that truly worthwhile movies have always been few and far between. Nonetheless, I return again and again to things that have laid hold of me in the past--Shane, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence, The Odd Couple, Empire of the Sun, To Kill a Mockingbird; Hawthorne, Fitzgerald, Twain, Hugo, Melville, and so on. 

Do we go back looking for what we may have missed in narrative, meaning; or do we go back in the desire to recapture what we are missing now? Are we, perhaps, searching for threads of the life we have left behind? 

A fellow asked the other day what sort of music I like. What came to mind was Debussy, Chopin, Glenn Miller, Sinatra, The Beatles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Euryhmics.  Who listens to that stuff anymore? What he meant, of course, was contemporary music, a category for which I could not find a single name or song. 

Has the music we loved and still love been long since set like a score to the essential narrative of a life that finds itself, in old age, mostly lived? Do we listen in order to meet ourselves again somewhere along that long and winding road? 

Are these the rocks we cling to as time comes to a screeching halt?

Gibberish

One more thing about language, as an addendum to my post on the subject from yesterday. 

In addition to speaking proper Indonesian along with the native language of a particular island, and possibly parts of one or two western languages, all Indonesians speak yet another language, which may as well be called gibberish. It's gibberish to me, anyway; and, unfortunately, it is the preferred language of common folks here. One might describe it as a "street" language (or Bahasa kampung)--very heavy on slang and other alternative words and constructions. 

By way of example, as I was coming out the front door today, I encountered a handyman on the property next door. As is common with Indonesians, he was eager to chat with me. Whether or not he was aware that I understood very little of what he said, this did not deter him in any case. I got, in general, that he was describing the work he was doing inside the house; and then he seemed also to be talking about a woman who had rented some other place and had ultimately left without paying the rent. I think. He had quite a lot of say about other things as well, but I have no idea what it was. 

I remember mentioning to my wife once that I sometimes had a hard time understanding our friend Samuel, who often did work for us at the house. She shrugged and said, "Yeah, I don't understand him either." And she was born and raised in Indonesia! 

This kind of reminds me of a boiled peanut salesman I once met on the road in central Georgia. He was a talker too, and while I was able to successfully conduct the purchase of a bag of boiled peanuts, I really had no idea what he was saying. Of course, that was largely a problem not of words unknown to me but of words hopelessly mangled by a thick southern drawl. 

So one does a lot of nodding and does his best to react appropriately to facial expressions rather than word meanings, chuckling here, frowning pensively there. That after all--nodding, chuckling, pensive frowning--is a language we can all understand. 

Language Comprehension

I was talking to one of the managers here at Starbucks the other day about language. He had mentioned that all Indonesians speak at least two languages--the universal Indonesian that is spoken throughout the Indonesian archipelago and the native language of one's home island--Balinese, Javanese, Sundanese, and so on. There are over 300 different languages spoken in Indonesia. In addition to this, many will speak one or two western languages, such as English or Dutch, given that the Indonesian language is restricted pretty much to Indonesia. 

It strikes me that starting from a baseline deficit may be one of the most effective springboards to achievement, as expanding one's knowledge becomes a necessity rather than merely a good idea. In America, we find ourselves rather unfortunately content with speaking only the English language, essentially because there is no pressing need to learn another language. There are some, even, who grow angry at the use of a foreign language on American soil, insisting that others 'speak American' if they're going to live in America. 

For my bachelor of arts degree at university, I was required to take two years of a foreign language course. I chose French. But there was no necessity to actually learn to speak French, beyond the minimum requirement of a 'pass' grade, and there was little opportunity to use French afterwards. So I did not learn to speak French. I have forgotten almost everything I picked up to earn the passing grade. I have always regretted this, and I see now, living on an island that hosts vacationers from all around the world, that it would have been really cool to know some French if I ran into a French speaking person, which I sometimes do.

It is personally useful for us to have other people speak our native language; but it may also be more useful yet to consider our inability to speak theirs a critical deficit, to be, through our  own effort, overcome. Language is intimately entwined with personality, emotion, humor, character, such that the deeper essence of a person struggling to use a second language may be lost in translation. In other words, he is often most fully himself when operating in the conventions and nuances of his native tongue. For this reason, I commit myself to using Indonesian when speaking to Indonesians, especially to my friends, so that I may glean the most articulate appreciation of their character. 

At the same time, it can be frustrating to be less than articulate myself--for while I take some pride in being able to use the English language effectively, I am painfully aware of my deficits in the use of Indonesian. But therein lies the springboard to growth that I mentioned above. Deficits are good things, when we use them as a launchpad to better things.