Lost in Translation

I love the faces on Indonesians when I try to speak to them in Indonesian. Their ears actually move, perking upward and outward, like elf ears. Their eyes widen and their pupils focus and deepen. Their brows furrow into frowning wrinkles in a mixture of concentration and consternation. What can this fellow be saying? It's a riddle, and by God we're going to solve it. Either that, or they just say Ya, agreeing with whatever I might have said. Bule gila toh.

Evening in Renon

The first interesting thing seen on my evening walk is the cows at the end of the street. I'm not a country boy. I'm a city boy. So cows are interesting. They will often stand at the edge of their field as I walk by, watching my progress with inscrutable gaze which almost, but not quite, approaches interest. There are calves in their company now, standing side-by-side with their mothers, munching on grass at the edge of the road, seeming a little quicker, in movement and in wit, than the parent. There is one cow among all these cows -- and I'm sure it's the same cow - who will sometimes venture to the other side of the road. Like the proverbial chicken, I suppose. Why? Well, because there's a big world out there. I once found her meandering along the next busy roadway, some five blocks distant from the field.

What did you go out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken by the wind? But what did  you go out to see? A man clothed in soft garments?  

But anyway ... one meets people on the way, too. A man is washing his car, and he stops to ask where I'm going. We chat for a bit. It's a good street for exercise, he says. Good for your health. And it is. I think. 

Children flash by on bicycles. "Hey, Mister," they shout. "Hello!"

Well, hello!

And from behind one fence, older sister and younger brother peer shyly over the top. "Hi." And they giggle. And they call their mother. And the mother shakes her head and smiles. "Pak," she says, nodding. "Selamat sore. Mau ke mana?"

Two old men are painting a wooden part of something, and they stop, and smile, and have perhaps fewer teeth than I. Which I find reassuring. Who needs teeth anyway? Or what smile is as pleasant as the toothless one? 

"Mau kemana?" they say in chorus. 

On Jalan Badung, I pass lots of tiny warungs -- Ikan Bakar, Babi Guling, Nasi Gandul, Kelapa Segar, Gorengan -- empty, waiting, hoping.

At the South Korean Embassy, or whatever it is, the two guards who are always there, always standing in the very same spot, greet me in the very same way, and ask the very same question: "Jalan-jalan?" Walking? Yes. As always. "Nanti mau ngopi, ya." Yes, I will stop for coffee soon. They know this. We've discussed it. But it never gets old, because having coffee never gets old. 

At a certain point, where the shoulder of the road is narrow, I walk to a tune of horns -- not French Horns or tubas or bugles, but car horns, motorbike horns, warning, quite politely, that I'm about to be run over if I make a false move. I walk slowly at that point, because I'm given to making false moves. Or my feet are, at least. 

I pass the chicken place, with the 5 dollar chickens, and the "super" market, where I pop in to buy cigarettes, and come at last to Limamike's. Ngopi. 

There, the two girls wave to me from within the windowed structure and give the "Ok" sign. Double cappuccino. Of course, they know. 

And so I rest. And though walking, I've been resting all along. 

The Third Eye

I had this long, complicated dream the other night that has stuck in my mind ever since, although, sadly, big chunks of it have drifted away. 

It seems that the government was collecting all past information from all people. Everyone was required to go through all past communications or data, even drawings, diary writings and so on, and submit this collection to the authorities. 

Naturally, people were hurriedly making a point of getting rid of anything "incriminating", so to speak. Anything they would not want seen. The goal was to be as anonymous as possible. 

As it happened, however, I had entrusted my stepson from my second marriage with this task, only to find that he had discorded nothing at all. Everything had been sent to the authorities. And there were things that would likely get me into trouble. 

Victor and Werner, for instance. These were two stuffed bears that my son had as a little boy. I would make up all kinds of stories about this bears. Stories that were not necessarily politically correct. Werner, for instance, was a nazi. Why? I don't know. He just looked kind of like a nazi. We would pin old World War Two medals to Werner and have him talk with a German accent, and so on. There were also stories I had written about the bears - comics that would sometimes include swastikas and such like. 

The point, I think, was to play Werner, who was extreme, a bit of a tyrant, against Victor, who was meek and kind. 

But of course the authorities were not likely to understand this. 

And there was more. I can't remember exactly what; but, you know, love letters, and angry letters, and x-rated letters, and so on. 

And all this had been submitted to the government by my stepson. Good grief. 

Next in the dream, and somehow connected, was the necessity for everyone to receive a tattoo. This seemed to be some kind of mass innoculation. You went to an official tattoo center and were able to choose your tattoo, as well as the location -- arm, chest, leg, what-have-you. 

I chose an eye, and had it placed at the base of my spine. 

A third eye at the base of my spine. That seems significant, although I'm not sure why. 

I've been thinking of that third eye ever since, and a certain phrase has entered my mind. It is the eye which sees what the others do not want to see. 

The Circle, Movie

Just watched the movie version of The Circle, a novel by Dave Eggers - and wow, what a disappointment! I took a look through Google for an angry response from Eggers, but found instead that he was aware of the changes and apparently approved them. Guess it's all about money, after all. Holden Caulfield would be pissed indeed. And rightly so. But then, we all know what happened to Holden Caulfield. Ironically, the movie falls into the very pit that ultimately swallows the humanity of the novel's protangonist. In place of the novel's truly chilling ending, we are served instead with a big goopy helping of popular cliches. My advice? Don't see the movie, folks. Read the book. And Dave -- listen to Holden. Don't be a sellout. Don't be a prostitute. You're better than that.

Milky

There's a dog just two houses up the street named Milky. But Milky, whose owners I had met quite some time ago, seems to be living alone in the driveway. The house is always dark, not a human in sight day or night. And so I am worried about Milky. She's behind a locked gate and at night she howls and cries most pitiably. She won't be approached and she doesn't even like anyone to approach the gate. I've begun to walk up there each evening and toss a sausage over the gate, making it a point to speak to her such that she might come to recognize my voice and associate it with sausage rather than invasion😅 Is anyone else feeding Milky? I just don't know.

Roland

My old Uncle Roland Allen was a snappy dresser. Always had been. When he was young he did gigs as a drummer in a jazz band. They called him 'Booger Allen".

One time, late in his life, my aunt and uncle stopped in at Roland's house to check on him. They found him just coming out the door dressed to the tee in a suit and tie with vest and newly shined shoes.

"My goodness, where are you going?" they asked.

"Well, to work, of course."

"But Rolly, you don't have a job anymore."

"I certainly do!" he said, rather offended. "And I'm late, if you'll excuse me."

Roland hurried on down the porch steps, only to find that his car was missing. For he had no car.

On another occasion, they arrived at the house to find him trying to replace a broken doorknob with a light bulb.

Earlier, in the 70's, Roland was already old, but still sharp, and cool. He loved the culture. He wore jewelry and bell-bottomed pants and practised yoga, all of which annoyed his stick-in-the-mud wife. And he taught my brother a lot about drumming.

I don't remember how Roland died. Alone, I think, in a three-piece suit.

The Process

Lying in bed last night, alongside my irrepresible neuropathic pain, which is not helped by lying in bed or by anything else, it occurred to me that when a person is first diagnosed with a disease, he doesn't really believe in the disease. Or, rather, he believes he has the disease, because the doctor said so and the tests showed as much, and, indeed, he has experienced some symptoms (which is why he went to the doctor in the first place), but he does not believe, nor can he picture, that the disease will affect him over time as it affects other people. He does not believe this because he, after all, is himself and not other people. He has had various troubles in the past, various illnesses, and has always been able to recover. It may simply take willpower, or exercise, or prayer, or changes in diet and lifestyle, but surely he will overcome the problem. Again, he has not ever been a person with a disease, and he is not about to start now. He will take measures. Think positively. 

Some years on down the road, the disease has fully entrenched itself, and has widened and deepened its investment. It has taken hold, one finger after another, and it is not about to let go. It can't. This is what it does. It thrives. His former state of health does not. 

And one realizes that he is going down. The opponent is stronger, faster, heavier, and possesses a far greater expertise - the blind, unknowing expertize of the cellular process, the very process that both enlivens and destroys him. He cannot win, and his efforts are reduced to a pattern of monotonous struggle and endless adjustment. Just when he has shored up one hole in the line, the enemy pours through another. The perimeter shrinks, the strangle-hold tightens, the capital building is already within range. 

And here he is, after all. Just like the rest. A person with a degenerative disease, following the road always followed by all. For there is only one road, and it leads inexorably to the same dispassionate, unchangeable end.

And it is at this point, strangely enough - at this crossing through the threshold of acknowledgement - that one truly begins to live.