Gang War

The "parade", as I have called my morning walk with its rather tuneless band of accompanying neighborhood dogs, devotees of the big fat brown dog, who is in heat, has become more of a running mob war, as the all-male band has tired to playing nicely. Now, fights break out all along the way--sometimes involving two, and sometimes involving four or five (as far as can be counted in the storm of snouts and tails. It has also become distinctly embarrassing, a riot with which I would prefer not to be associated. (Note, for the historical record, that I say 'would', not 'wouldn't', and that indeed I intended to say 'would'). People look on at the noisy, fur-tearing scrambles and seem to say (or maybe I just fear that they mean to say), "What don't you control your dogs, Mister?"

BUT THEY'RE NOT MY DOGS!

The Ghosts that Haunt

I had an unusual dream last night--which is unusual in itself, as I did not dream at all whilst I was taking Xanax at night, given the deep state of sleep induced by that drug. It's kind of like being put under before a wisdom tooth extraction--you don't know nothin' till you wake up in some room, wondering whether you've had the extraction yet, or whether you just nodded off for a minute. Anyway, I've been off the Xanax for a while, not by choice but because a prescription is now required, and I've been having a number of vivid dreams, as if they are trying to catch up after the downtime. 

In this dream, the dead--or ghosts--had "learned" to co-occupy living hosts. The idea seemed to be that, on the model of evolution, ghosts had acquired the ability "to become", to crawl out of aimless, powerless limbo and enter into a flesh and blood vehicle, to live, move, and have their being in partnership with an already animate vessel, which would then contain their essence, and itself be altered by the new presence. 

Okay, my dream did not give me all the scientific or biological or metaphysical details--or if it did, I can't remember them--but anyway, it seemed an inventive sort of Idea.

Curiously, the host, in this way, becomes haunted--haunted, and intimately so, by a ghost. The host, of course, has no idea that it has been entered and now shares its identity with a ghost. Nor, for that matter, is the ghost any longer a ghost, any more than the human being is any longer an ape. It is an equal partner in a single vessel. 

Ghosts, as we know, do not ever shed their history in previous sentient life. Rather, they tend to be obsessed by their history, unable to release it, and therefore unabl e to leave the world. Or at least that's how many of the ghost mythologies go. Wandering, troubled spirits, you know? People who do not know they are dead. In short, even as ghosts, they are haunted by themselves.

Now, suddenly, the corporeal dwelling is haunted not only by its preexisting shapes and patterns, but by the new, foreign shapes and patterns as well, and likewise for the new bodily occupant, such that the one and the other hardly know who is haunting who! 

Lol. Well, if I were a young man, with talent and energy, I'd see if I could formulate a cohesive horror story of all this; but as it is, the whole thing is starting to give me a headache. And so I will sign off in hopes the matter will haunt me no further. 

The Parade

I am the accidental grand marshal in a daily parade of wild dogs,  all but one male, and each having brought along his personal instrument, so to speak, to march intimately at the tail of the big fat brown dog, who marches along behind me pretending to be oblivious to her retinue. They are a shaggy, ragged, disorderly band, an unseemly flash mob, a coalition of bitter enemies, adversaries according to sex and breed, yet united in a single purpose, that being to impregnate the big fat brown dog.  They are brown, white, black, and all shades in between. They are small and large, long and short. They are quick-witted, slow-witted, and nit-witted. Cars honk at these dogs, drivers shake a fist, children on motorbikes shriek, neighbors close their gates, and the woman who sells fruit drinks at the little stand up the street, seeing that the band has grown from 2 to 10 in number, exclaims "Aduh!" Some of the dogs get bored along the route, or distracted, or forget what they were up to. A few reach my house at the end of the route, and here they argue and pose, bare their teeth and exchange insults, but things rarely come to a full fledged fistfight, the preferred form of combat being to tell your opponent in fearsome detail what you're going to do to him if you feel like it. And then at some point, these most patient and persistent of suitors will realize that their object, their goal--i.e. the big fat brown dog--has slipped away behind the blood-red curtain of their rage and is now nowhere to be seen. Therefore, each will line up before the grand marshal to receive a cookie, and then will head on home. Tomorrow is another day. 

It's Facebook, Dude

My goodness, things get downright silly sometimes on Facebook. I mean, I always begin with the acknowledgement that It's Facebook, Dude, not the lecture hall at Oxford--meaning that I will take note of some news article, perhaps express my reaction in a comment, and move on. 

There was an article yesterday, for instance, declaring that "science" had now disproven the authenticity of the Shroud of Turin. Well, if you read the article, you find that no such thing has been "disproven". To be sure, new doubt has been cast on the most recent official study of the shroud; but then again, if shroud research adheres to its long, contentious character, doubt will soon be cast on the doubt. 

So, I said something to this effect, and noted, as well, that this "bombshell" new study and refutation of the old is concerned with only one aspect of the many layered questions and mysteries of the shroud (namely, the dating of a small fragment of the shroud). In other words, casting doubt on one thing does not cast doubt on all things. 

Well, this comment was met with aggressive, sometimes insulting responses and demands. Produce your evidence! Show us your research! Cite and detail your sources! Lol. 

Umm … no. I have neither the energy nor the time--nor, indeed, the inclination to satisfy the demands of anonymous 'Facebook scholars'. Material on the shroud is both voluminous and readily available for study. Do your own research, man! 

I mean, I don't know whether the Shroud of Turin is authentic or not, and I'm skeptical both of the believers and the skeptics. I find the artifact curious and interesting, and so I have always followed the latest research. Aside from being a curiosity, however, the thing is not really of earth shaking importance one way or the other. 

Ah ha! You won't answer!, they say. So that means you don't know what you're talking about! Ha! Busted. 

Well, no, it means that I have no idea who you even are or why I would be spending precious time and effort to fulfill your demands for documentation and bibliography and footnotes. I mean, gosh, I was just passing through and dropping a short line! 

I mean, It's Facebook, Dude!   

The Lovers

This skinny little brown dog has become a constant companion of the big fat brown dog of late. The big fat brown dog is convinced that this is because she is a pleasant, fascinating individual, where intellect and general body odor are concerned, although, in fact, it is because she is currently in heat. Will females never learn? In any case, the little dog accompanies her at all times, like a second tail, and enjoys, as a fringe benefit, sausages and cookies at my house, which is the big dog's home away from home (and she's away from home most of the time). 

I will say in the  little brown dog's favor that he is friendly and personable with me and comparatively polite and respectful with his paramour. It is clear that the big brown dog appreciates this comportment as well, as she has rarely needed to bite him. Well, fairly rarely. A firm though polite growl seems generally sufficient. This may not be the most direct or expedient way to score for the little dog (I don't know, for I was never good at that sort of goal myself), but it is civil, nonetheless, and seemly, especially in the realm of common dog manners. 

In addition to making himself comfortable in my house and eating food from my refrigerator, the little brown suitor also accompanies us on our morning walk, such that people along the way will exclaim "Ah, you have two dogs now!" and I will need to modify my customary response--"It's not my dog"--and answer instead that "They" are not my dogs (neither of which, in any case, people seem inclined to believe). As a matter of fact, over the past couple days, we have begun to pick up several additional hopefuls along the way, becoming something of a neighborhood gang.

Honestly, I guess I'll kind of miss the little brown dog when the big fat brown dog is no longer of interest to him--although she has told me that I needn't worry along those lines, for he will surely love and cleave to her till the end of time. 

The Great Mother

Mothers are the original extremists. Not all mothers. Not my own mother, for instance. I'm talking about the classic mother, the mother of vicious love, the terrible and awesome bear-like, lion-like mother. The archetypal, all powerful mother. 

It is from such mothers that the young boy and girl first learn the meaning of terrorism, fear. It is from such as well that they learn manners and respect and the futility of lies.

I well remember one time when my stepson, Sasha, accidentally set fire to my desk chair when I was out in the yard taking a break from work.  The poor, panicked boy came running outside, sounding the alert, and I went in to find flames leaping from the plushly cushioned chair and smoke billowing from the room. 

At just this moment, his mother arrived home, and it soon became clear that the true terror lay not in the flaming chair but in his mother's retribution; for whilst I was busy at smothering the flames with wet bath towels and looking to determine a quick way for the chair and its trailing cloud of smoke to exit the house, Sasha's mother had backed the boy into a corner, wielding a BIC lighter while demanding to know if he knew that he could have burned the house down, and whether he thought it was funny to play with fire, and whether he thought she should light him on fire. "Would you like that, huh! You want me to set you on fire?"

"Noooo! I don't want to!" Sasha cried. 

In the meantime, I am trying to lift the large, unwieldly, blackly smoldering chair and find a way to edge it out the door. 

"Um, Louis," I said, "can you stop setting fire to the boy for a minute and help me get this chair outside?"

Another incident, years later, involved an accident with Sasha's brand new laptop. It was raining as he arrived at school one day, and as he ran from the bus to the schoolhouse door, he lost his footing and fell. On top of the laptop. A heartbreaking disaster for the boy to begin with, given his love of computers, the internet, online games and so on. In short, it was his life. And yet this tragedy was nothing compared to the fury of his mother, likely making the boy wish that computers had never been invented. 

"I can't believe how careless you are! How clumsy! Do you have any idea what that laptop cost? No! Because you didn't buy it. I did! (Not strictly true, but I digress). Well, I'm not buying you another one, I'll tell you that--not until you can appreciate the value of money." 

"I know, I know. I didn't ask--"

"I'll tell you what you're going to do. You're going to get a part time job after school and you're going to make every bit of that money back and buy the next laptop for yourself!" 

And so the boy went to work, his first job. And the laptop incident faded. And behind the scenes negotiations quietly ensued between Sasha, his father, and his new boss toward the goal of procuring a new laptop. And soon the boy was equipped again, computer-wise, and had some pocket money to boot! 

During the tenure of my second wife, there was an incident wherein my stepdaughter and her friend had taken my stepson, Preston, to the park with them. Well, they had not intended to do so, but had been told that they must, for the little tyke was bored at  home. Well, it happened later that my their mother, Georgia, was passing by the park while on some sort of errand, and spied her son sitting all alone on a swing set whilst the daughter and her friend sunbathed in the grass some distance away, likely under the impression that some passing boys might notice them. Georgia parked the car, retrieved Preston from the swing, and drove him home, without a word of this to the girls, who blissfully continued to bath in the summer sunshine. 

Bye-and-bye, a telephone call came into the house. 

"Hi, Mom … Um … how are you? How are things at home?"

"Great. Why?" 

"Oh, no reason. Do you … umm … do you have Preston there?"

"No, he's with you. You were watching him at the park, remember?"

Silence. Panic. A broken connection. A desperate search for Preston ensues, who, of course, is nowhere to be found. Not in the park, anyway. Within a half hour, the pale faced, tear streaked girls show up at the door. 

And find Preston watching cartoons in the front room. 

"Mom!!" 

Outraged, wet faces contorted, hovering between extremes of fear, relief and anger, the girls march through the house to confront Mom. 

"How could you! How could you do that to me!"

"I did something to do you? Hah, that's rich," Mom says. You were responsible for Preston in the park, were you not? Is that how you watch over your little brother? If I could come and take him, anyone could come and take him. Ever think of that? A molester, a pervert, a pedophile. Ever think of that?"

"Oh. My. God. I HATE you!" the daughter retorts. 

Extreme, is it not? And, if nothing else, a lesson that a young girl will never, ever forget. 

One other incident (among many). The same daughter, having survived into her later teen years, has adopted a bit of an attitude, as later teen girls are wont to do. She's having a tiff with her mother, and she's not about to back down this time. Words grow sharper, the air grows tense, as before a thunderclap, and then, suddenly, Whomp! upside the head. 

Ah, but the youngster--an adult, as far as she is concerned--is not having it. 

"Do it again," she challenges. 

Whomp. 

"Nice, Mom. Do it again if you want." 

Whomp.

And then, "Do you want me to do it again." 

"No," the dazed girl answers. "That's enough." 

Mothers are extreme. Mothers are always right. Mothers are not to be messed with. 

Although my own mother was a gentle, quiet, angel of a woman, I think now, in my later years, that it might not have hurt me to be squashed now and then by a more decisive, less tolerant thumb. For one thing, I had no idea, growing up, that real women in the outside world could be frightening monsters. Or crazy. I had no frame of reference other than my mother's mild, nonconfrontational nature. I was, therefore, ill-prepared. Moreover, I enjoyed a sort of unchallenged kingship. King Richard, they called me. Which, again, did little to prepare me for the advent of other royal personages, such as queens and princesses and wicked witches. And wives. 

Bule Beware

I was talking to my young friend Sabrina this morning and she mentioned how bules need to be careful about being charged a higher price for items, even at seemingly trustworthy establishments. Her friend, she said, had been charged 100.000 Rupiah for an umbrella at the minimart which should have gone for about 27.000. He was also ripped off at a national name pharmacy, Kimia. 

It's true, sadly enough, and happens regularly to tourists who are unfamiliar with the money or with what things ought to cost. It happens even to those of us who have been around for a while. Even when you've been here seven years, as I have, you have to remain aware and watchful. When I was at the gas station the other day, I gave the attendant Rupiah 100.000 for about 30.000 worth of gas. I was aware that he asked me whether I didn't have smaller money, but assumed, unwisely, that he was just trying to make his job easier or didn't want to give out his smaller bills. Obviously, I should have counted the money he returned as change, but I was kind of just on automatic pilot, pocketed the change, and went my way. Later on, I realized that the man had kept 50.000 for himself.  Too late to go back, of course, because he would merely claim that I was mistaken. It is unfortunate to have to slow up the line while one counts his money, but there you have it. Take care, or take a loss. 

I remember the pharmacist at one Kimia outlet giving this sort of thievery a shot perhaps a year ago, asking nearly double the correct price for a medication. I was aware of the proper price because I had often bought the same medication at another Kimia store. I pointed this out to him, but he stuck to his guns. "No, that the price here." 

"You mean this Kimia has different prices the other Kimias?"

No comment. Blank stare.

"Right. Not likely, man. I'll just buy it at my regular store." 

Balinese are generally very honest people. But in these sorts of 'transactions', I think the act is reasoned away as a sort of on-the-spot tax collection from a customer who is a foreigner and therefore surely wealthy. What is 100.000 Rupiah to him? After all, he has traveled around the world to play in my country, so … well, pay to play, right? He's already paying exorbitant prices at his hotel and his salon and his fancy restaurant, so what the hell. I may as well get a piece of the action, too. 

The moral of the story: Bule beware!