Pak Pinjam

There's a guy here in my neighborhood whom I call Pak Pinjam, which means Mr Borrower. He is also the guy who regularly brings food for the dogs. They are not my dogs, but they are generally camped out on my front patio in the morning and the evening, waiting for their food. I guess they figure it's a nice place to eat. The dish brought them is usually rice with chicken feet and a little soup. 

But that is beside the point. 

Pak Pinjam comes from time to time not only with food for the dogs but with a request for money from me. Not for the food, of course, but because he continually needs money for some reason. Neighborhood gossip has it that he gambles, but this cannot be proven. In any case, he always kind of whispers and bows and says that he needs X amount of Rupiah, which he can return to me on the next day. But he never returns the money on the next day, or on many days after. 

I don't know why I keep falling for this. For one thing, the request makes me feel embarrassed somehow. Embarrassed for him, perhaps? Or just embarrassed that anyone would stoop so low as to be asking money from other people, especially a person he doesn't really know or have a relationship with. I don't think I've ever spoken with the man other than when he asks for money.

This last time it was 500,000 he asked for, about 27 USD. The promise once again was that he would pay me tomorrow. 

He did not pay me tomorrow. He did not return any of the money until about a week later, when he gave me half of the loan. Now, some weeks on, I am still waiting for the other half. 

The curious thing is that he shows up every few days and assures me that the money will be "transferred" that very night, which I take to mean that someone for some reason will be transferring money into his account, if he even has one. But then that doesn't happen, and I can't help but wonder why he even says this. I mean, I've heard about three times now that the balance of the loan will be transferred to his account by the end of the day or by tomorrow, at which time he will repay me. Why does he say this? Or better yet, why do I loan him money in the first place?!

At this point, I'm not really figuring on getting the money back at all. Perhaps I will live and learn this time. Perhaps not. If the return is tardy, it has still been returned. But still, it is the principle of the thing, you know? How does the old saying go? Neither a borrower nor a lender be. 

Official

Well, the official diagnosis of my latest shoulder injury is torn tendon in the rotator cuff, along with the pre-existing diagnosis of narrowing ("penyempitan") of the acromioclavicular joint. 

I got two steroid injections into the rotator cuff, and of course I'm told that I need to do physiotherapy. 

I am glad, at least, to find that no operation will be needed. Now if I can just avoid further injuring myself until I get back from Japan, which will be sometime in early November. 

In other news, here in Bali we are suffering through a major gas shortage on the island, which is apparently, as recorded anyway by those responsible, the result of  some kind of delay in the arrival of fuel from Jakarta, from whence it is sent to Bali. It is hard to describe the lines of cars and motorbikes cued up at the gas station. These lines stretch as far as a kilometer and more in each direction on the street. It is taking many hours to reach the pump, and last night I saw people setting up tents to sleep over and wait for the opening in the morning. But there are two pieces of good news, as far as all of this concerns me. One is that I have not been able to drive my motorbike lately because of the shoulder injury, and the second is that I do have 3/4 of a tank when I am ready to try. This, I hope, will last until the fuel situation is straightened out.

Virtuosity

I am amazing. I am a genius. I am a virtuoso of diseases. Usually I develop one problem after another with a space of variable length between problems. But I have advanced. Having barely managed to end up with acromioclavicular joint pain, I have moved straight on to a rotator cuff problem, leaving no space between the two. What did I do to achieve this most recent injury? I really don't know. I remember standing that my kitchen counter and then reaching behind my back my left arm to scratch at something. There was an audible snap and then immediate sharp pain behind the shoulder blade. Keep in mind that the left arm has not had a problem, ever. It has always been a 

The right arm--the broken shoulder surgery, the acromioclavicular joint pain, and now the rotator cuff disaster. And I can tell you that this one hurts. I advise against injuring your rotator cuff in any way. It's not worth it. This has been severe pain, for which I was given muscle relaxers and pain relievers and told to obtain an MRI of the shoulder. This I have now done and I'm scheduled to see the doctor yet again tomorrow for the reading of the MRI and the conclusion regarding what I should do. To make things worse, I am scheduled to travel to Japan on October 30th. Woe is me. They shoot horses, don't they?

Monthly Report

 I see upon glancing at my blog that I have not kept up with reports of my health disorders. I'm sure no one has missed these, but who knows, I might need to look back at some point to keep track of them myself should a doctor want to know when I had this or that. So the last one I wrote about was actually kind of two in one - -a problem with eczema occurring in concert with the flu. Well, I've moved on from that. Always moving forward, as far as poor health is concerned. 

After the flu, or rather on the tail end of the flu, I developed a serious case of gastroesophageal reflux. I've had this before, most notably back in 2019, as I recall. After that time I had little flare-ups now and then, but this latest case was a doozy. I finally seem to have gotten on top of it, although I am still following a very bland diet and taking omeprazole twice a day. 

Therefore, with nothing better to do, I decided to reinjure my shoulder. Apparently this happened when I was raising my arm above my head, as the orthopedist had told me to do. Listening to him as it turns out was not a good idea. What happened was that I irritated my acromioclavicular joint. This is the space between your shoulder blade and your arm. Of course, I did not know specifically what had happened, all I knew is that it hurt like hell over the entire shoulder and down into my chest and back. 

So after suffering for a week or so, I decided I had best go to the doctor, especially considering that I will be headed to Japan later in the month and I did not like the idea of sitting for 8 hours or so on a plane while having an insanely painful shoulder. But, you know, the tickets had already been purchased. 

I had an x-ray at the doctor's office and was informed that, thankfully, there was no damage done to the recent surgery site. Nothing out of place, nothing broken. That was my great fear - - that I would end up in the hospital again with another hospital bill, on top of the expense of the Japan trip. Ruination! 

But no, the doctor explained that this unimpressive little space between bones was responsible for all that impressive pain I was having. I am surprised that no one has ever mentioned this little particular to me before, either in previous physical therapy or after the shoulder surgery. In my case, this space has become extremely narrow due to arthritis and degeneration of cartilage between the bones. 

So now I am taking muscle relaxers, pain medication, and learning exercises designed to decrease pain and keep the joint as stable as possible. 

And I'm not lifting my arm above my head. 

Ever. 

Again. 

Apart from all of this trouble, I have purchased all four books of Elena Ferrante's My Brilliant Friend series. I am currently reading book 2 in Indonesian, which for some reason was not available here in English. Go figure. I'm not really sure why I'm so fond of these novels. Maybe it is because of the excellence of the female viewpoint communicated by Ferrante. For a male reader, it's kind of like continually saying to oneself, Oh, I see, so that's what they are thinking! I dunno, it's just a very engaging story filled with interesting characters, both female and male. 

Twain

I was watching a documentary on Mark Twain the other day and I was shocked to find that he was only 74 years old when he died. I say only, only as an old man, I suppose. But the surprising thing was just that it was surprising--surprising because I have read several biographies of Twain and of course I've seen many pictures of Twain, but somehow it had not sunk in that he was not more like 90 years old. He certainly looks 90 years old in some the photos I've seen. But here is what I am getting around to. I myself am nearly 73 years old now. Could it be that I am nearly as old as Twain and ready to die? That I have just one year left? Surely I cannot live longer than Mark Twain, because, I mean, after all, he was Mark Twain for God's sake! And lived a life worth living, and left so much behind for the rest of us. His imprint on life, even in death, far supersedes the impression made by most other people who have ever existed. Indeed, it absolutely blots us out. Now how do you like that? Anyway, I wish now that I hadn't watched that documentary and found out how really old I am. Thanks a lot, Mark.

Aposiopesis

... Did you know that there are more bacterial cells in your body than human cells?

    Seriously? 

    Way more. You have 500 different species of bacteria just in your intestine. There's enough bacteria inside you to fill a two-litre bottle. Scientists believe some human genes originally came from bacteria. 

     Well that's disgusting, she says. 

     Yeah, you say. But when you think about it, it's also pretty interesting. People get so hung up on are they this kind of person or that. But if you have ten times more non-human cells than human cells, then, in a way, you're not even you. 

     It kind of takes the pressure off, you say. I feel like if people knew they were mostly bacteria it would solve a lot of problems. 

--The Bee Sting, Paul Murray

One last bit of biting hilarity from The Bee Sting, the second reading of which I enjoyed even more than the first. This novel ends in what is called, in literary terms, an aposiopesis--a really keen term meaning that it has an open ending, it is a non-closure narrative. The story ends at the point of maximum tension and provides no clear resolution. That part is up to the reader, and in this case, it serves as a litmus test for whether one is an optimist or a pessimist, or perhaps something in between. It gets you to thinking ever more deeply about the story, and indeed about yourself. It is interesting, if you delve into the thing online, to find how many different reactions and opinions there are, each seeming very sure of itself. My own reaction on the second reading was of a somewhat different shade than on the first. The book itself hasn't changed, and so that means, I guess, that I have. It seems that a new shaft of sunlight has appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe it's just that proverbial light going on in my brain. 

Ready or Not

Everything seems radiant with self, and at the same time distant somehow, as if it were receding from him -- moving away in time, while he stays where he is. This must be what it feels like to be dying, he thinks; the world remains around you, like a lover who does not want to hurt you by leaving, but in spirit it's already gone, taking with it the meaning of everything you shared. In truth it is already transforming into a future you will never be part of; and you realize only then that it has been transforming all the time, throughout your whole life, and you with it; and that, in fact, is life, though you never knew, and now it is over.

--The Bee Sting, Paul Murray

A penetrating, insightful passage from Paul Murray's excellent novel (which I am reading for the second time). Transforming into a future you will never be part of. That one stings. And I feel that way myself. I feel on the outside of the life that is unfolding around me. I am already not here. I'm watching someone's home movie. And that right there is how out of it I am--because people don't have home movies anymore, do they. Do you remember the old projector and the white screen on its folding stand? Do you remember having to watch someone else's life? Aware that it is important to them, at least, but that you yourself have no part to play. You are an observer. Or maybe you show up in one or two of the flickering images. There I am, you think. Proof of life. And then it's over. And you realize that as your own life unfolded you should have watched more closely, you should have lived with greater intention, you should have loved more completely, because this, this very short long life, is down to its final ticks; and what is left is nothing more than cliche - -if only I had it all to do over again .... 

Sleep Well

Before he became a father, he imagined the relationship as being like an intensive version of owning a pet. The child, he thought, was essentially passive, a vessel into which you poured your love. On TV that's how it looked. Children were silent, dormant; you went into their bedrooms, gazed down at them fondly, drew the blankets over them as they slept. 

--The Bee Sting, Paul Murray

That's not only how it looked on TV. For me. For me, that's how it was. My son, as a child, as a little boy, was everything I wanted him to be. And more. He could not have been more perfect, and no father and son can ever have been closer than we. 

That was a long time ago, when he was just a child. It was a very long time ago, and yet, at the time, it seemed like it would be that way forever. 

It was not what I expected, nor did I envision a silent, dormant creature, such as Murray describes. I envisioned nothing at all, for I had never been a father nor imagined being a father nor wanted to be a father. 

So what had been unknown and unwanted or at least unthought of became all that was known, all that was wanted, the center of thought, the birth of selfless love. 

Murray's story doesn't end at the quote above. Nor does mine. One night you draw the blankets over them, and then in the morning they are gone.

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.

Memories of the Quarantine

"Your excellency, quarantine provisions are usually rendered ineffective by the same people who refuse to take them seriously. And in the end, those people die too." 

--Nights of Plague, Orhan Pamuk

This novel does bring back memories of COVID measures, memories that seem to have been suppressed somehow--not, perhaps, because these were traumatic times for most of us, but maybe just because of the boredom we endured. 

I think that here in Indonesia quarantine measures were less severe in one sense, and yet more extreme in another. In general, except for a few brief periods, we were not confined to our homes, although on the other hand there wasn't much point in leaving our homes, because nothing was really open for business, nor were the beaches open. So one was free to go out and drive around on his motorbike for no particular reason, but staying home and watching TV was usually more entertaining. I have a photograph somewhere of the barren streets of Sanur looking rather ghostly of an evening. Later on, some cafes opened for business, but offered only take away items. So you could go to Starbucks and get a coffee in one of their paper cups, and then bring it home. If you were on a motorbike, however, there was no telling how much coffee would remain in the cup by the time you got home. Best just make it at home, right?

On the other hand, vaccinations were pretty much required. Well, you could choose not to vaccinate, but without holding a certificate of vaccination, as well as having a special app on your phone, you would be barred from any place where the public gathered, to include malls, restaurants, cafes, movie theaters, shopping centers. In short, by refusing vaccination, one basically imposed extended quarantine on oneself. 

But we did not have here any significant protest against vaccination, any large scale conspiracy theory proponents. On the contrary, people were eager to vaccinate because there is nothing that Indonesians love more than gathering in big social groups.

We did have deaths here - - lots of them, just like everywhere else. The difference between COVID in our time and the plague described in Pamuk's story of the first decade of the 20th century, is that we got a vaccine, they did not. 

Plague

"Nobody ever wants a quarantine, not governors or mayors, not shopkeepers nor the rich. Nobody wants to accept that the comfortable lives they are accustomed to might suddenly come to an end, let alone that they might die. They will reject any evidence that disrupts their usual ways, they will deny any deaths, and even resent the dead." 

--Nights of Plague, Orhan Pamuk

Remember COVID, folks? Remember the COVID deniers? Remember the vaccine refusers and the mask opponents and the sinister Chinese who spread the the virus and the government conspiracy to trammel the freedoms of the American people and the accusation that the whole thing was a hoax, that people had not really died, that the people who did die were dying anyway and the government just said that all had died from the virus. Remember the wackos and the knuckleheads? Well, it was nothing new. The virus itself was new, but the knuckleheads were not. These same folks, or their ancestors we should say, reacted in the same way to the European plague of the early 20th century, which had required the same measures to save lives--isolation, separation, quarantine, masking. It was the same with the plague of the mid 1600s, the measures were the same. People were confined to their houses, and yet there were those who refused to be confined. The government would respond by sending soldiers to nail the doors shut where the occupants refused to join in with the common good. And still they escaped, and of course spread more infection. Orhan Pamuk tells a familiar story in this 2022 novel. It is an eerie read concerning a plague that took place a century and a quarter ago, and yet a people that have not changed from one plague to another, one century to the next. 

Life Insurance for the Dead

Imagine a person who makes herself both the policyholder and the beneficiary of a life insurance policy. It doesn't make sense, right? It's stupid. 

And yet this is apparently the case with my girlfriend's mother. In the initial action, mother had taken out the policy and named daughter as the beneficiary. However, she added the clause that should her daughter die first, the beneficiary status would then revert to the policy owner: to whit, herself. She could have named her grandchildren as secondary beneficiaries, however she decided to name herself. I will note here that the daughter is 53, the mother 80. This is an 80 year old woman, in other words, who figures that she may well outlive not only her daughter, but her grandchildren as well.

Now I ask you, what does a corpse do with a life insurance payout? Clearly, one condition is now missing. Life. By the time the money comes through, the new beneficiary (again, herself) will be 6 feet underground. How to deliver the payment? Disinter the body? But that only leads us back to the initial conundrum. How will the beneficiary, hereafter referred to as the corpse, be able to receive, let alone utilize the rewarded funds? 

Then again, who says the funds must be utilized? They must merely be rewarded, right? I suppose this could be managed by a direct deposit to the bank account of the corpse, where they will either be as useless as the corpse now is, or perhaps reserved for some possible point in the future when the body happens to rise from the grave. In the theoretical case of a rapture, the corpse, now reanimated of course, could maybe stop by the bank on her way to meet the Lord in the sky. I mean, it's possible I suppose, although it will require unforgivable sin for at least one banker so that there may be someone left behind to disperse the funds. 

Then again, such worldly treasures, as Jesus told us, are stored up here on earth, not in the Kingdom. In other words, you can't take it with you. You can only give it to the living on earth. 

Well damn, this must certainly be a painful let down to the hopelessly avaricious dead.

But they probably deserve it. 

Pamuk

The art of the novel is based on the craft of telling our own stories as if they belonged to others, and of telling other people's stories as if they were our own. 

--Orhan Pamuk, Nights of Plague

Orhan Pamuk is my latest addiction. I have always had a way of coming upon an author I like and then proceeding to read the better part of what he has written. Just a while back I was onto Thomas Hardy, and read his four major novels. Now I am onto Pamuk. I have finished The Museum of Innocence, I am currently wading through the Indonesian language version of a novel called Snow, and I have just begun on Nights of Plague, a novel that is about the size of a phone book (although I guess I am dating myself with the phone book reference. What's a phone book? you say). Anyway, it is long. 

Pamuk it is not the most quotable writer in the world, and I think that is because he does not intrude himself into the story he is telling. Or so it is in the work I have read so far. Instead, he himself is to be found only in the telling of the story, as suggested in the quote above. 

Interestingly, the narrator of the Museum of Innocence hands over the conclusion of his long story about love and obsession to the writer Orhan Pamuk by name. The protagonist hands over the book to the writer of the book, leaving judgment, evaluation to him. It's an interesting little trick, and a stunning one as well. Suddenly we are standing outside of the story, soberly looking in. Obsession fades like fog in the sunlight, the mystery, the aura, the veil falls away. 

The fixation of the lead character, Kemal, on the young and lovely Fusun is extreme (extreme in the extreme, one might say), and yet I think that everyone can identify to some degree with what Kemal is going through, or rather putting himself through. Anyone who has ever had a crush cannot help but experience a pang of memory, and probably a wince of embarrassment as well. I was obsessed once with a certain woman when I was younger. Yes, I would have to say obsessed. Like Kemal, I would collect things that she had left behind after a visit - - some strands of hair, for example, or something she had written on a scrap of paper, or the pen she had used to write it. These things were a bit of her, they were things I could hold when she was away, each having a magical significance, just as the woman herself possessed a magical significance, though wholly conferred by my own imagination. She was, the best of her anyway, an invention of my own, just as Fusun was Kemal's invention. 

 

And that's it from Bali tonight, folks. It's my bedtime now and I am sleepy. The other night I had a dream of this same woman. In the dream there was some kind of problem. We had argued and there was tension in the air, a certain painfulness. We separated and I headed for home, ending up in an apartment building and standing before a room numbered 222. I was searching in my pocket for the key, and suddenly realized that this was not my home at all. I then pictured my home in Bali, from above as in a certain photograph I have that was taken by a drone. Now I am curious about the number 222. What does it mean? Perhaps I will find out in tonight's dream.

Mini Trek

Given the mild weather this evening, a bracing 82° or so, I decided to take a walk down to the nearby Alfamart, not because I really needed anything but because it was a likely destination and because I reckoned I needed the exercise. During these weeks wherein I have been banned by the doctor from driving my scooter, I have been decidedly less active than usual (which is saying something, because I am not generally very active in the best of health). 

I live at the end of a dead end street, and walking up to the living end, so to speak, one passes by newly deforested land on his left side. This deforestation (or dejungleization) has unhoused all kinds of previously hidden critters, including, no doubt, the snake that recently showed up in the middle of my living room, as well as lizards of the larger variety (such as the tokek which has now set up house in my bogainvillea tree), and a number of very well fed rats (one smashed variety of which I pass on my way up the street).

On this barren land, new houses are being built, and the builders have set up little plywood shacks to live in while they do their work. These are migrant workers for the most part, coming either from the boonies of Bali or from other islands, principally from Java. On the side of one of these shacks two words have been painted in red: bajul bedeng. I have no idea what this means. (Later on, I ask Evelyn, but she also has no idea). These particular scarlett letters must remain a mystery. 

At the head of the street, one turns left if he wants to go to the market (and right if he wants to go nowhere in particular), and then left again upon her reaching the main street. On the way I pass two young men coming in my direction, one wearing a t-shirt with a large cross on it, the other wearing a t-shirt with a colorful picture of Jesus on a cross, both smoking cigarettes. 

Just past the gas station is the market. Here I buy a bag of Cheetos, two bags of M&Ms, and two packs of cigarettes for a total cost of seratus sembilan puluh tujuh ribu seratus, about $10 USD. 

Fully equipped now to enjoy the remainder of the evening, I trek back home, only a little less wobbly from when I started out.

Mission accomplished.

The Boredom of Healing

The healing process of my broken shoulder is coming along nicely, it seems, but still it is frustrating to be grounded from the use of my motorbike. I don't like just sitting around the house (no doubt the day will come for that in the future, but not yet), so I am left with calling for a grab car everyday if I want to go anywhere (which I do). I must now wait for yet a third x-ray on July 9th before the doctor will determine whether or not I can drive. Two of the bones have healed, he tells me, but a third not yet. Were I to drive the motorbike, I would risk re-injuring this bone. So, erring on the side of caution, I must wait. 

In the meantime, I have begun reading two new novels - - the Museum of Innocence, by Orhan Pamuk, and the Buffalo Hunter Hunter, by Steven Graham Jones. 

I have chosen the first because I enjoyed the Netflix series taken from the novel, and the second because I had read something by Jones in the past and seemed to remember liking it (I think it was The Only Good Indians). 

I am finding The Museum engaging on the literary level - - an interesting filling out of what was presented in the television series. In many cases, I am reminded by the telling of the social conditions in Turkey of these same conditions in Indonesia. 

Buffalo Hunter, disappointingly, strikes me as boring and silly, but I will struggle on through it anyway. 

I've just enjoyed a week with Evelyn, who, sadly, had to leave sooner than expected. But it was nice to have help with taking care of things around the house while my right arm was still basically immobile, and of course, as always, her sparkling presence made everything more cheerful. 

Now it is back to the old grind. I am eager to get some things done, which I am nonetheless unable at present to do. I need to take my motorbike for repair, for example. Apparently it also was injured in the fall, such that something is leaking from the bottom of the bike and the engine does not sound well. This is going to cost me, I reckon. Evelyn feels that this type of motorbike is now too large for me, as I have shrunken in the past couple years, and certainly I am not as strong as I used to be; but on the other hand, what am I to do? I just recently renewed the registration of the bike for the next 5 years, and I don't really have the money to purchase a new, smaller bike. 

Ah well, life is costly sometimes.

Face It

I don't know about the rest of y'all, but my Facebook has become absolutely worthless, crammed with one extreme partisan post after another, one divisive hate mongering site after another, so much so that I've decided there's no point in even looking at the app anymore. It is one big invitation for people to hate on each other, and it is both depressing and exhausting to look at. I suppose some of these sites may be coming from foreign countries and paid trolls, but surely many of them are originating right here in the good old USA. Perhaps I have invited this trash through my own innocent interests. I am interested, for example, in politics, and I am interested in religion, and I'm even interested in a discussion of atheism versus religion, as long as there is some actual substance to it, and some civility. But perhaps I have unwittingly created a toxic algorithm that brings me all this poison. There is no exchange of ideas, no room for learning new things or discovering other meaningful points of view. No, it is all insults and curses and foul language, and most of all stupidity. I am endlessly astounded by the deplorably low level of intelligence displayed. Are Americans in general really this dumb, or is it just that Facebook particularly attracts the dumb among us? I don't know. It didn't used to be this way. But it is irredeemable garbage at this point and so I've decided to move my Facebook icon to an inferior screen on my phone with the other apps that I do not use and did not ask for. So goodbye for now, Facebook. I will check in once a month or so to see if anything has changed for the better.

A Holy Fool and his Followers

"Literature is a particular type of knowledge ... it is the perfection of imprecise forms." 

--The Books of Jacob, Olga Tokarczuk

I have finally finished this inventive and intellectually stimulating fictional documentary of the life and times of Jacob Frank, known to his followers simply as the Lord. The story ranges from Turkey to Germany and everywhere in between, most especially Poland, winding about like a mouse in a maze, meeting up with Muslims and Jews and Christians and Jewish converts to Christianity and stubbornly talmudic Jews as well as people pretending to be one or the other or the next for mere convenience sake. And then there is Frank himself and Frank's ever obedient followers. One might call it a cult and not be too far off. Frank, who started out Jewish, then became Muslim, and then converted, at least in name, to Christianity, was at base an anti-Talmudist, and ultimately, in many ways, pretty much anti everything, and yet he managed to manipulate the powers that were in force during the various periods of the 18th century, both religious and royal. Nor was he any stranger to the love of money. He was both a fool for God and just a plain fool. Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed this sprawling novel and will miss living between its covers.

Frankenshoulder

Back to the doctor yesterday. Bandage removed. Wound looks good (really cool, Frankenstein type scar). Doctor says that I cannot lie on my right side for 6 weeks, which is a bummer because that means I cannot do the back exercises that might help the pain from pre-existing disc disease because they would put too much pressure on the shoulder. Boy this world gets ya comin' and goin', don't it? One more visit scheduled in 2 weeks for a final post-operative x-ray. Two months before I can drive the motorbike again (if I am brave enough). I mean, Grab car is okay, but you kind of have to go just one place, and I am used to going here and there on the motorbike to get my various errands done. But the cost of going here and then there and then the other place using grab which soon become unmanageable. Ah well, such is life for the time being.

Allen Somebody

After coffee this morning at my favorite spot, I walk up to the nearest Kimia pharmacy. I have decided that methylprednisolone will assist in the healing of my shoulder. I also found last week after meeting the surgeon once again that the pain in my right mid back is from yet another broken bone. This one was not broken so badly as those in my multiply fractured shoulder, and yet it is causing much more pain than the shoulder. It is a stabbing pain, much worse when you get up or sit down, or certainly when you try to get out of bed in the morning. The doctor, last week, gave a pain medication that has proven completely ineffective. Pretty much the only way I can sleep at night is by taking Xanax. The main problem with the shoulder is frustration at the limited motion along with the need to sleep only on my left side. At night also there are shooting pains in the shoulder and twitching nerves in the arm. 

So from the Kimia pharmacy, I call for a Grab car. 16,000 rupiah going and 16, 000 coming back. Not bad. Together, the price of an evening coffee  somewhere, which I no longer enjoy, staying home instead. So that I break even as far as cost goes, for the two Grab trips are equal in price to one coffee at the beach.

On the way back home, the Grab driver plays country music on his stereo. Allen somebody, or somebody Allen. I don't know him, but he's pretty good. He's got the twang going, and it's hard not to sing along -- which the driver does. He is a mustached young man and has a deep, pleasant voice. He sings along about love gone wrong. What else can you do? 

The driver really likes this Allen somebody. He searches for another tune which he sends to the stereo from his phone. There is no tape, no disc, no radio dial. I guess this is the way they do it these days. I don't understand how it works. 

I'm thinking that I am pretty much cooked. I'm thinking that I'm about ready to clock out. Punch my card. 

What now? TV news that I can't bear to hear. Old movies that I have seen before. Books. Coffee. Medicine. Sleep. Half-hearted physical therapy. Maybe there's a cookie somewhere. Popcorn. The popcorn is always more entertaining than the entertainment.

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. 

---------

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. 

------------

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.

Trash

So we're having a bit of a trash situation here in Bali these days. Or I should say these many days. Apparently the government has decided that there will be no more trash on the island. Or no trash collection anyway. They say that there is nowhere to take the trash. 

Well that's a bit of a kerfuffle, isn't it? 

So here is this mountain of trash just in front of my house. Gunung sampah, in the language. It is growing with each day and more putrid with each day, and with each night the dogs drag various portions of it into the street and into my driveway. 

It seems also bound to attract various creatures such as rats and snakes and cockroaches and God knows what else. Alligators? 

This morning when I came home from having coffee I opened the door and found a rather large snake in the middle of my floor. 

Of course as soon as I approached, the snake slithered under the nearest obstruction, attempting to hide himself. Otis the dog came in and immediately sensed the presence of this snake. He began to hunt it beneath one of my shoe racks. He flushed the snake out of that hiding place only to have it slither back behind my tall, heavy bookcase. I had to wrestle this thing out from the wall so that Otis could get behind it. The snake then made his way around the dog and back to the shoe rack, as Otis decided he was not about to be careless around the thing. Pretty smart dog, as it turns out that the snake is of a poisonous type. This I learned after sending a picture of the snake to the neighborhood group. It is a picung snake. It can spray a fluid at its enemies which causes blood clotting and poisoning.

Anyway, by continually moving things and using a broom to direct its movements, along with Otis's rearguard attacks on its tail, we managed to get it outside onto the front patio, which is where the photo above was taken. Oma (Gramma) from down the street was alarmed by the barking of the dogs, Otis having now been joined by Jagger, and came up to help with her own broom and a metal dustpan. 

The snake is no more. RIP. 

But what of his brothers still out there? 

Oma advices that I keep my door closed. But that's something I plan to be doing anyway, not so much to prohibit the snakes, which may or may not come, but to block out the stench as far as possible. 

Not a very good advertisement for Paradise island, is it.

Sparks

That night I saw the world in a completely different way than I had ever seen it before, illuminated by a pale gray sun, small, miserable, and crippled. Darkness was emerging out of every nook and cranny. Wars and plagues were raging the whole world over, Rivers overflowing their banks as the earth quaked. Each and every human seemed like such a brittle being, like the merest eyelash or speck of pollen. I understood then that human life is made of suffering, that suffering is the true substance of the world. Every single thing was screaming in pain. 

--------

"Don't be fooled by all that gilding. Scratch it with your fingernail, and you will see what's underneath," said Reb Mordke, and he dragged me into filthy courtyards, where he began to show me a completely different world. Ulcerous, ill women begging outside the bazaar, male prostitutes dressed as women, ruined by hashish and sick and poor, crumbling mud huts on the city's edges, packs of mangy dogs scrounging through the trash, in between the bodies of their companions, starved to death. It was a world of unthinkable cruelty and evil, in which everything raced towards its own destruction, toward death and decay.

--The Books of Jacob, Olga Tokarczuk

Pretty bleak stuff, right. Ah, but now I remember, or I begin to remember. Jacob Frank, acolyte of Sabbatai Zevi before him, a 17th century Jewish Messiah figure ultimately captured by Muslims and given the choice of death or conversion to Islam. Zevi chose conversion (so much for his term as Messiah). Frank, like Zevi, believed that only descent into the realms of utter degradation could ultimately save those trapped therein (the trapped 'sparks'), lead them back out again, and thereby bring about the Tikkun, the repair, the restoration of the world. Or some such nonsense. 

The strange thing about all of these strange philosophies is that the deeper you go, the more confused you become. It's like falling into one wormhole after another. Maybe. I've never actually fallen into a wormhole, but I imagine it might be something like this. My son, Holden, seemed to have things more or less straight in his own mind, but then again his mind was not so much straight as it was labyrinthine. For me, the gospel was always both a simpler and a more elegant path to follow. 

Nonetheless, it seemed good entertainment at the time, and an avenue by which I might keep a handle on my son's journey, to somehow know something about what was going on, just trying to keep my head above water, and hoping that he could too, or at least that I might be there to rescue him when his arms grew weary.

 

Mostly Concerning Literary Matters.

Walking along the lane at dusk the stranger was struck by two or three peculiar features therein. One was an intermittent rumbling from the back premises of the inn halfway up; this meant a skittle alley. Another was the extensive prevalence of whistling in the various domiciles - - a piped note of some kind coming from nearly every open door. Another was the frequency of white aprons over dingy gowns among the women around the doorways. A white apron is a suspicious vesture in situations where spotlessness is difficult; moreover, the industry and cleanliness which the white apron expressed were belied by the postures and gaits of the women who wore it - - their knuckles being mostly on their hips (an attitude which lent them the aspect of two-handled mugs), and their shoulders against door posts; while there was a curious alacrity in the turn of each honest woman's head upon her neck and in the twirl of her honest eyes, at any noise resembling a masculine football along the lane.

Here's a nice little piece of artful insinuation from Thomas Hardy's The Mayor of Casterbridge, which might be generally described as a novel of betrayal and revenge, blind anger and painful regret. It is in my mind somewhat inferior to Far from the Madding Crowd and Jude the Obscure as it seems uncharacteristically melodramatic, as far as my estimation of Hardy's work has developed (this being my third Hardy novel). It reminds me a bit of Hawthorne's novels, though minus the fantastical/supernatural elements. That's not to cast any aspersions on Hawthorne, who for me is unequaled in his specific genre. 

In the meantime, I have begun my reading of a ponderous 900 page tome by Olga Tokarczuk and entitled The Books of Jacob. I happened to hear about this novel in some way, I have forgotten how, and the subject drew me strongly because it reminded me of my son's passing obsession with a Messianic figure by the name of Sabbatai Zevi--a 17th century Rabbi and Kabbalist who briefly led people as a sort of Messiah. I don't remember the details now with any clarity of Zevi's philosophies and adventures, but I do remember having many a long discussion with Holden, or rather sitting for many a long lecture on the rabbi's views. Tokarczuk's novel follows a similar historical figure from the 18th century, and I just wanted to kind of reacquaint myself with something that used to engage me with my son. But I have only gotten to about page 100 thus far and so I cannot say much about the novel. I'm actually surprised that I was able to find it at all. I could have found it of course if I still had a functioning Kindle reader, but I don't. Or rather, the reader functions but I have no US visa to connect it with. However, I thought one fine day that I would just take a look on the internet marketplace here in Indonesia, called Shopee, and lo and behold there it was. So this must be a providential sign, as Holden surely would have thought. If only I had him here still to interpret for me. 

In matters not touching on the literature, I was surprised to hear today from my stepdaughter, Jamila, whom I have not seen for some 16 years and more. She is traveling here to Yogyakarta and then to Bali, and I am very much looking forward to seeing her again, as I have very much missed her during this long period of time.