Cursed

I've been struggling over the past two weeks with two cursed problems occurring simultaneously. First off, I found myself suffering with terrifically itchy arms (something that has happened to me in the past as well). The skin was very dry and red and the more you scratched it the more itchy it got. Went to the doctor for that and found that this was actually eczema along with a skin infection, for which I received an antibiotic cream and some sort of other cream to help the skin heal. 

Then, the day after seeing the doctor about the skin problem, I woke up with the flu. And this has been a bad one--nose running like a faucet, sore throat, and finally coughing my lungs out. Impervious to cold medicine, or so it has seemed. 

But both problems seem to be on the heal now, although only slowly so. Both together have left me feeling fatigued and constantly sleepy. 

Not a great end of the summer season for me. Last night we had a heavy rain and one can feel the season changing. Soon the rains will become more common, heavier, and the stifling humidity will return. Honestly, summer (June, July and August) is the only really bearable season here. In fact it is quite pleasant. So I will have to just hunker down and look forward to summer of 2027.

An Old Couple and Etc.

Evelyn has been here in Bali for 2 weeks, and we had a cozy, pleasant time as usual, just hanging out, cooking, exploring. It seems that we have become as familiar as man and wife, an old married couple. Which I guess makes sense. We have been together now going on 6 years, per my calculations. But given that we are only able to be together once every two or three months, perhaps we have in this way avoided the familiarity that breeds contempt, as the old saying goes. 

Now she has returned to Central Java and I to such menial activities as arguing with atheists on Facebook or watching mostly substandard movies on Netflix (although I did discover not long ago that one can get lots of old movies on YouTube, some of them pretty good).

I have finished an absolutely intriguing book (if you are intrigued by plague) by Orhan Pamuk (Nights of Plague) and I am now reading Melville's The Confidence Man for the third time in these many years of mine. And finally, astoundingly, praise God, I am understanding it 😂. The prose here is very dense and sophisticated, even for Melville, but if you pay close attention, you get what is going on, beneath the surface, that is. It is, as I suddenly realize, an intensely Christian narrative, although in the cynical, satirical fashion of Twain. But it is a joy to read, and actually quite funny for its startling descriptions and turns of phrase. 

I have begun as well another Pamuk novel, The White Castle. I am reading it in Indonesian, so my progress is somewhat slow, but that in itself can be a good thing, as it tends toward a more careful focus on what is being read. Ironic, isn't it, that it can be easier to miss things written in one's own language. 

Short Circuiting as a Habit

Some time ago, my neurologist advised that I keep an eye on my mental state, as I had shared a concern with him about ongoing and seemingly increasing problems with word searching and various other forms of forgetfulness. Of course, in the back of my mind (what's left of it anyway) is always the spectre of my mother's Alzheimer's disease. My doctor tells me that there are pills for this nowadays that can slow the progress of Alzheimer's, if it is in fact determined that Alzheimer's may be present. 

This leads me to mention an event that occurred just a couple days ago. I was down in Sanur, had had my coffee at a cafe, and then walked over to the store across the street to pick up a few items. Returning to my motorbike, I decided to nip down to the beach and have a walk. 

I parked my bike, and as is customary for me, I opened the seat to get my hat and a cigarette. I closed the seat and started on my way only to discover that what I had taken from the bike was not a hat nor a cigarette but a bag of Cheetos. What am I doing with these? Damned if I know. 

So I returned to the bike, got rid of the Cheetos, started off again and found that this time what I had with me was a grocery bag. Not a hat. Not a cigarette. 

Only on the 3rd attempt did I get it right. 

Now that does strike me as odd. Sometimes it is difficult to evaluate ones own mental state. One is quick to forgive oneself little lapses in cognition, laugh them off. But this seemed significantly larger than little. One might say alarming. I am acutely aware of often having difficulty retrieving the correct words from my brain. Or of starting out to describe something, to tell one story or another, but then being unable to summon any of the names of the people, or the place names, or ultimately what the point of the story was to begin with 

There are many things like this that begin to appear not so much like unusual glitches as concerning red flags. 

But then maybe the next day the brain revives and you think well maybe I was just tired, right? Or maybe my mind was on something else. But then again, is it  reasonable to imagine that the mind cannot handle more than one task or thought at a time? 

It's a rhetorical question, of course. 

I think I need to have another talk with the doc. What's-his-name. 

On the Road Again

On the road again 

I just can't wait 

to get on the road again

--Willie Nelson

Well, I am on the road again, as my doctor has finally lifted the ban on motorbike driving, pronouncing my broken shoulder bones healed. 

I must say that after 2 months of being off the road, I felt actually a bit nervous about getting back on. Happy, but nervous. 

When I first started out, the ride felt strangely wobbly, as if I were a learning to drive all over again. But I soon got reaccustomed, without breaking anything in the way of bones, and now, a week on, I am perfectly comfortable again. Well, as comfortable as one can be among fanatic motorists.

As the old saying goes, when you fall off your horse, the best thing you can do is hop back on. 

What has Become of Us?

"What has become of us? We have plunged into hell!" 

--Nights of Plague, Orhan Pamuk

Past is prologue.

All great literature addresses the present moment at some level. No matter how long ago the story being told takes place, its essence is taking place in our present day world as well. Similarly, a plague is a plague, but also a symbol. It is a sickness at the heart of a culture, or a country, or of mankind itself. 

There is a sickness in the heart of America. There always has been. Past is prologue. You cannot watch the nightly news and say that our country is not seriously ill. Americans are being gunned down in the streets by poorly trained ICE agents. One after another these murders occur and are then quickly swept under the rug. Not one of these gun happy killers has yet been brought to justice. Innocent people are dead, and we move on, and then more die, and again we move on. 

What has become of us?

We are plunged into a war of choice against Iran. Nobody asked us. Nobody asked our Congress. And our present Congress wouldn't have done anything even if they had been asked. We hear on the news about damage to friendly naval bases or port facilities or air strips, we hear about a handful of our own people killed in the war (or the excursion, I should say), but what do we hear about the deaths we have inflicted? Almost nothing. As far as I have seen, almost nothing, save for the initial killing of Iranian government officials. But what about the people, the innocents, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, children? How many have died in our various obliteration attempts? Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Why is nothing said about this? Why does no one even seem to think about it?

In the meantime corruption gnaws at the putrifying body of what used to be our national honor and integrity. Food is snatched from the mouths of the hungry, healthcare is denied, livelihoods are degraded, and the treasure of the rich increases obscenely, while hatred of the truth abounds. 

We have plunged into hell. 

Sami Pasha had indeed seen his own crow nibbling at the eyes, noses, and ears of dead bodies; but what he did not understand was how it was possible for these birds to fear scarecrows without being afraid of human corpses too. 

--Nights of Plague, Orhan Pamuk

Conversations with Grab Drivers

Yes, I am still banned from using my motorbike until the bones in my shoulder heal. And so this leads to daily conversations with the Grab Car drivers as I get a ride into town for coffee and then back home again when I am done doing whatever I can find to do on foot in town. 

Grab driver questions always follow the same basic pattern: Where are you from? Do you have a wife? Do you have children? Your Indonesian is very good, how long have you been here? Do you have a villa here? Where have you been in Indonesia? Have you been to Java? Where have you been in Java? 

I always list the cities beginning with Jakarta, then Jogyakarta, and ending with Solo. 

Oh, Solo!

Yes, I like the Solo.

And before I can say why, they always answer for me--

Yah! The people there are very friendly! 

How does it happen, I wonder, that Solo ends up being universally considered as very friendly in a country where every place is very friendly (excepting, perhaps, Jakarta)? Why is it very, very friendly? 

Well, I don't know. From their point of view anyway, I don't know. From my point of view, I thought it very friendly because I was treated there almost like royalty. This felt discomfitting at first, but then also curiously pleasant. Perfect strangers would insist on shaking my hand. People would open doors for me, or press elevator buttons (as if a foreign person might not understand how the buttons work). School children would run out to the street and surround me as I walked by, babbling 100 questions all at the same time, some proudly practicing elementary English. One little girl insisted on holding my hand as we all walked along. 

So how can one not like Solo? 

But Grab drivers are very friendly too. There are some who remain silent as we drive, but most of them want to talk. I find myself still sometimes taken off guard, even after all these years, about what seem, to a bule, anyway, to be invasive questions. Where is your wife? Oh, no wife? Why don't you have a wife? 

But they mean no harm. They just want to know. Family is very important to Indonesians. Parents, wife, children. Living or dead? And so on. 

And so it goes. If nothing else, it breaks up the boredom of being stuck in the ever-increasing traffic here. Even so, I am looking forward to the hope of being released from my motorbike restrictions--maybe today!, as I will go this afternoon for my third shoulder x-ray to evaluate the current situation. 

Keep your fingers crossed for me, folks.

Reason

"We have put ourselves in danger by gathering here..., "the Major began. "According to quarantine regulations, it is forbidden for more than two people to meet at a time." 

"We are in God's hands!" said Majid. "You mustn't fret; our destinies are already written, and it is not for us to worry about what is to come!" 

-------

The lunatic clerk then recited several other verses to the effect that there was no refuge beyond Allah. These were the same verses that preachers and holy men would inevitably cite whenever any outbreak grew large enough, so all Muslim doctors and quarantine officials were perfectly familiar with the words...

--Nights of Plague, Orhan Pamuk

A bit of deja vu here from Nights of Plague. I well remember those brave but clueless true believers who would sometimes appear on American TV broadcasts or Facebook posts--standing unmasked on the city street and bearing signs that read "God is my protection" or some like slogan. Parents, grandparents, children. To wear a mask was to be without faith, and without that, they would rather die. And some did.

Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons. 

This brings to mind an old joke shared by the pastor at one of the churches I attended back in Portland. 

There was a man shipwrecked and floating about in the wide blue sea. The man spent day after day fervently praying for deliverance from God. Then one day, he heard a whirring noise overhead and noticed a wind moving across the still surface of the sea. It was a helicopter overhead, the blades stirring the wster. Two men at the open door lowered a ladder toward the man in th sea. Instead of reaching for the ladder, the man wildly waved them away. 

"Grab onto the ladder," the men shouted. "We are here to rescue you!" 

"No, no!" the man replied at the top of his weakened voice. "I've been praying for deliverance, and God will surely soon come to my aid."  

Moral of the story? Well, maybe this: prayer works, if you don't decide in advance what the answer ought to look like.

God gave you a mind. Use it.