Salvation

The Messiah is something more than a figure and a person - - it is something that flows in your blood, resides in your breath, it is the dearest and most precious human thought: that salvation exists. And that's why you have to cultivate it like the most delicate plant, blow on it, water it with tears, put it in the sun during the day, move it into a warm room in the night time. 

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My death, which until now has lurked somewhere in the distance, offstage, dressed up and made up, has now cast off its ball gown, and I see it before me and it's true form. I am not frightened, and my death brings me no pain. It only seems to me that the months and the years are now moving contrarywise. For how can an old person be permitted to go on, while the lives of the young are cut short? 

--The Books of Jacob, Olga Tokarczuk 

And thusly should we live. This I say of the first quote, and a beautifully expressed thought it is. Especially coming from a writer who is an atheist. That is my understanding anyway about Tokarczuk.

I get the second quote too. My death also has lurked somewhere in the distance, but at 72, going on 73, its carefree lurking days are definitely over. Relatively speaking, the time is upon me. It cannot be put off. It cannot be negotiated with. It is just there, having thrown off that old ball gown (🤭) and appeared in all its glory, naked as the day I was born, peering around corners, ducking behind trees, stepping on the heels of my shoes, knocking me off my freaking motorbike. Ah, still here are you? it says. Well, so am I. But, you know, even when you are near the end, it is still hard to take it quite seriously. It is still hard to grasp the meaning of finality. And that brings me back to the precious thought expressed in the first quote: that salvation exists. 

Original Sins

The cow and the horse tracks in the road were full of water, the rain having been enough to charge them, but not enough to wash them away. Across these minute pools the reflected stars flitted in a quick transit as she passed; she would not have known they were shining overhead if she had not seen them there - - the vastest things of the universe imaged in objects so mean.

     --Tess of the D'Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy

Behold, when thy face is made bare, he that loved thee shall hate; 

Thy face shall be no more fair at the fall of thy fate. 

For thy life shall fall as a leaf and be shed as the rain; 

And the veil of thine head shall be grief, and the crown shall be pain. 

     --Atalanta in Calydon, Swinburne

Well, appearances may be deceiving (and usually are when it comes to the first phase of romantic love), and sin, like equality, when portioned out may fall in unjust measure, particularly when it comes to the male and the female of the species - - sin being more sinful and equality less equal where the woman is the object. These are the dynamics at play in Tess of D'Urbervilles. 

It is a rather slow novel, and often needlessly so, as Hardy by the time he wrote this later novel had become enamored with naturalism, a school of literature particularly popular in the late 19th and early 20th century and known for such literary midgets as Theodore Dreiser and Hamlin Garland. Gone with the wind, those two. Happily however Hardy does retain a special talent, so ingeniously conceived in his earlier works, for interweaving nature and setting with character and narrative, and thus keeps his head well above the shallower efforts of others. At the same time, it is my feeling that he loses focus in many passages of this novel, and rather than working a magic of clean strokes and swift sleight of hand, gets too often stuck in a quicksand of mere nature, impressive for its detail but tedious for its delay of the tale. The story has finally picked up pace at around page 200, but too late I think to rank with the other three Hardy novels I have recently spoken of here. 

Black Stars

... And then the last thought that comes to him before he finally drifts off is how hard it is for us to ever get away from ourselves.

The Books of Jacob, Olga Tokarczuk

When I was in grade school - - somewhere near the midpoint, I guess - - I found an old ledger book of some sort in my parents basement and in this I would record the nature of the day I had just spent, giving each day some sort of colored star, as I recall. A sunny yellow star meant that it had been a good day, and a black star meant a bad day. I recorded a goodly number of those black stars, feeling sorry for my fate as I did so. And yet there seemed some sort of consolation in those black stars, something somehow, in some strange way preferable or certainly more notable than the sunny yellow stars. As it seems to me now, I noted them darkly down on the page with a certain sort of tragic relish. 

I count these days of this past week as Black Star days. And it seems that I am little by little understanding that my life is over 🤭. Well, my life as I have known it anyway in these recent years in Bali. 

They say that in older people there is almost always an event that marks the beginning of the end, something from which they will never fully recover and must finally expire. Will this be it for me? I cannot know. But I despair at this point of recovering even the limited good health I had before this motorbike accident, this broken shoulder. I confine myself for the most part to the house - - not that I cannot go out, but because doing so seems just too painful and too much trouble. I cannot enjoy the simple daily things that I used to enjoy. Hell, it's too painful really even to get dressed. I am wrapped up uncomfortably in this arm sling just as if I were tied to a chair. 

The funny thing is that it is not even the shoulder that hurts so very much as it is a focused area in my right mid back. Is this from the shoulder injury, or is it the pre-existing herniated discs in my back, or is it a localized nesting of arthritis. Well, perhaps I will find out when I see the doctor on Saturday. 

Don't have an accident in Indonesia, I have always said, because here they do not give narcotic pain medications. They are against the law. 

But boy what I wouldn't give for some Vicodin just now!

how I learned to be a one-armed man

First off, I

had to crash my back in order to cause the proper injury. So, when I was on my way back home from town on Wednesday, I turned onto my little home straight and halfway down the street, I managed to somehow suddenly crash onto my right side, specifically squarely on my shoulder. It was the strangest thing, really, it was as if the bike was suddenly in violently yanked out from under me, as if by the hand of God himself. Or Satan. 

Anyway, the young men nearby who were working on building a house, rushed to my aid, helped me to my feet, and it was immediately clear to me that my shoulder was dislocated. At the very least. Later, at the doctor's office, I was to find that the shoulder was broken in three places. 

I was helped back to my house by the aforesaid workers and ultimately joined by a parade of neighbors as well, one of whom offered to drive me to the hospital. 

That seemed like a good idea. 

So off we went to the emergency department and finally saw a doctor. Got an x-ray. Got an echocardiogram. And so on. 

The shoulder was in need of an operation, I was told, but the surgeon decided that we would have to wait until Monday because I am on blood thinners for a previous stroke. 

Given the severe pain I was having by the time I got back home, waiting nearly 4 days for surgery seemed ridiculous. By this time, everyone knew of the incident and begin calling around to different hospitals. Finally, Louise suggested a hospital where she has a friend - - in fact, the chief administrator of the hospital. Viewing the X-ray online, the doctor at this hospital disagreed with waiting because of a blood thinner, considering the injury an emergent situation. 

So off again to the new hospital and another ER and more tests and IV lines and so on. 

In the meantime, Evelyn in Java had heard of the accident and immediately booked a ticket to fly here and stay with me in the hospital. 

Gosh, people here are kind and decent. It always amazes me. 

While we waited for Louise and Wayne to come pick me up in their car, a score of neighbors hung around with me on my patio, brought me food, cut up some fruit for me, discussed all the mechanics of the incident. 

By the way, I should mention that it was not God or the devil who pushed my bike over. As it turned out, there was a cable across the road, like an internet cable, and as I drove over it, it wound into the spokes of my wheel and yanked the bike out from under me. Talk about freak accidents. 

To make a long story short, I was checked into the hospital, Evelyn arrived, and the next thing I knew I was in surgery and under total anesthesia. Which was a relief. I kind of wish I could have stayed that way. 

Now, back home again since Saturday, I must wear a sling on my right arm at all times. And when sleeping, I must lie only on my left arm. I am to move the arm as a little as possible for the next two weeks. 

So this is where learning to be a one-armed man comes into play. And I can tell you, it is not easy. Especially when every movement you make sends a shrieking pain through your shoulder and back. 

How to put on clothing with one arm? Well, there are ways. You have to employ special and unusual maneuvers to pull on pants or put a shirt over your head, or put on your socks. The whole incident is giving me a new found sense of respect and amazement for one armed men.

Unfortunately, Evelyn has had to go back home, this being Sunday now, and so I am on my own. Well, the dogs are here, but they are really not much help. More of a hindrance really. It is up to me alone now to discover how one-armed men prepare meals, for example, or shower, or dry after showering, or wash the dishes, or do the laundry. And so on. 

To make things worse, my pre-existing condition with degenerative disc disease is made much worse than usual, as, naturally, the entire back has been traumatized then twisted about. 

One armed men are not happy campers, as far as I can tell so far. But they have to learn to live this way. There's no other option. 

Obviously, I won't be driving the motorbike for some time to come. One armed men do not drive motorbikes. And so the only way out of the house is to get a ride from Grabcar. So I have to pay if I want to go anywhere, and I have to pay to get back again. But at least I don't have to pay for the gas!

The Comet of 1759

The comet resembles a scythe aimed at humanity, a naked glistening blade that might slice off millions of heads at any moment, and not only the ones on the craned necks in Ivanie, but also city dwellers' heads, Lwow heads, Krakow heads--even royal heads. There is no doubt it is a sign of the end of the world, a harbinger of angels rolling up the whole show like a rug. The play is evidently over, armies of archangels already gathering on the horizon.

The Books of Jacob, Olga  Tokarczuk

Signs and wonders.

I have an old friend who used to keep me up to speed on the latest end times/rapture/end of the world news. This time, each time, it was a sure thing. The signs and the times and the pertinent scriptures and the calendar of Jewish feasts and who knows what else were all aligned.  The puzzle is solved. The end is not only near. Near has never been satisfactory. No, this time the end is here. 

And yet, it wasn't. 

A slight mistake had been made. A miscalculation. 

No worries. The next end is soon formulated and locked in. 

But I always wondered how the words of the Lord and the apostles got locked out. 

A wicked and adulterous generation looks for a sign, but none will be given it except for the sign of Jonah. 

...for you know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.

But of that day and hour, no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, but My Father only.

And...well, and so on.

Signs in the heavens. Earthquakes in divers places. Wars and rumors of wars. People were as certain of the impending end in 1759 as they are now. And that adds up to a whole lot of predictions going wrong. 

Maybe the Lord is waiting for us to understand and implement the meaning of his first coming before he bothers to come again.

And folks, that might take a good long time. Or maybe forever. 

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

Communing with the Living Dead

"I commune with the dead," says the priest, showing with his hand the books behind him, lying on the table. "I'm accustomed to their stories. Nothing surprises me. I can even honestly say that I prefer to listen to the dead than to the living." 

--The Books of Jacob, Olga Tokarczuk

So much of what comes to my mind these days, thoughts that in the past would have pressed me to speak, seems just too depressing and too pointless to merit the effort of utterance. I used to think it would mean something. I thought that if we all spoke out at once it would rattle the world to wakefulness. Instead, I am overwhelmed by the deaf and dull march into oblivion of the irretrievable days and months and years. Much of which we feared losing is lost, behind us now. I may as well listen to the dead than to the living. 

In reading Tokarczuk's prescient novel, one can hardly help but see a reflection in our own time of the mid 1600s, a time of chaos, division, violence, hatreds, poverty, greed, depravity, despair. Thus, the desperate hope of a savior. The arrival of a messiah then, a sudden rapture now. 

Even the most bizarre, most frightening thing can start to seem natural, familiar, when it becomes a part of the plan. 

All of the stories have already been told. Nothing surprises me anymore.

The Boy

Those of us who think God addresses us by means of external events are wrong, as naive as children. For he whispers directly into our innermost souls. 

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Cry, brother, cry. Your tears will cleanse the wound, and it will heal quickly.

--The Books of Jacob, Olga Tokarczuk

Early this morning, I saw myself out by the front gate, peeking around the corner, looking back at myself. 

I was sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette, looking at my phone, and at first it was just something quick, in the corner of my eye, a trick of light or mistaken motion.

But then I/he peeked again, and long enough this time to be definite, real--a head of wispy blonde hair, nearly white in the sun. What are we now - - 8 or 9 years old?

Hey boy, I said, Hello. 

We are thin, the both of us, yet he with the vigor and fitness of youth, I with the atrophy of age. But I was once the same as he, and he, poor soul, will be the same as I.

The boy steps more toward the center of the open gate now and waves at me. He continues to look, and I don't know what else to say, or why is looking, so I just smile. 

He dashes off then, and I am about to crawl off, sloth-like, into the house, but then he reappears, this time with his mother. 

Now she smiles, and says, He likes your motorbike.

And I and myself and he and his mother all smile. 

Well then, come in, I say. Take a good look. 

The boy checks with his mother for approval, and then slowly approaches the bike, and with reverence, as if it were an object of worship. The boy walks a full circle around the bike, this holy relic (or no, I am the relic, don't let me get confused), nodding shyly with admiration, reaching out with a hand but never quite touching. He is shy. I was shy too. I, this boy. 

And then he is gone, out into the world, and I wonder whether I will ever see myself again. I think that would be nice, but with things such as these we can never be certain.