Sasha

My stepson, Sasha, aka Patrik (the latter because Indonesians have a hard time pronouncing the word Sasha, just as is the case with Richard and my own substitute Will) has come to visit and will be in Bali for a month. Sasha formerly lived here, for about 5 years,with his mother and I, but returned to America several years ago to live with his natural father. It is always a pure joy when he comes to visit, as he has done every year since leaving, and I'm looking forward to doing a  lot of talking and laughing with him. We all got together yesterday at the Starbucks in Plaza Renon. 

Prism

One of the stories in Ted Chiang's collection, Exhalation, concerns a far future gadget called a prism, a gadget about the size of a present-day laptop, a quantum machine which, among other things, allows users to communicate with alternate selves who live in their own plane of possibility based on life choices made by the self using the prism. Of course, the alternate selves, whom as far as they are concerned on not alternate at all, are using their own prisms as well, without which no connection could have been made. 

Well, I had not set out to explain the quantum mechanics of Chiang's imagination, though in doing so, I've discovered an additional facet of Mr. Chiang's talent--that being the ability to make the ridiculous sound reasonable. But no, I meant to say that this story left me with some interesting thoughts about how we look back on our lives, how we regret certain things, how we sometimes idealize the choices we did not make. If only, you know? And were we fated in any case to make the choices we made? Are the results, whether positive or negative, a product of the choice itself or of own's own manner of handling things in life (any life).  

When we make one choice, we discard all others. These others have a life of their own--in Chiang's story as alternate selves on their own timeline; in real world terms as what we would be had we done things properly, or at least differently. In short, we have created living figments, ghosts, and are haunted by our own creations. 

It is, as I say, very difficult to describe the setting Chiang has created here, and, again, it leaves me with new appreciation for his particular talent. Come to think of it, he does this in quite a number of the stories contained in Exhalation, so that I am newly impressed when I consider the thing. Not that all of the stories in the collection are successful. They aren't. There are a few nearly perfect gems, and most of the rest at least give the reader something to ponder. In all, Chiang has invited us into alternate worlds that seem at the same time both wildly unlikely and eerily familiar.  

Speaking of ...

Speaking of Takut the dog, I've noticed that his ears, like Viana's, are tuned to the comings and goings of a particular motorbike. The only difference is that while Takut seems to readily identify the motor sound made by the bike he's watching for, Viana must duck at the sound of pretty much any bike. It also seems clear from their separate reactions that for Takut the sound of the bike is a welcome thing whereas for Viana it is something to avoid. When Takut hears the motor, he will hurry out the door and down the street, while Viana seeks to hide until it passes. It's a mystery. Who can this bike belong to? A father, a brother, an uncle? Why is Takut excited about seeing the owner while Viana avoids being seen? I asked Viana about it once, but she offered no meaningful answer. I've not bothered to ask Takut. 

And speaking of Viana, the girl seems to have disappeared. Haven't seen hide nor hair of her in a couple weeks. Perhaps someone has told her that the villa is a 'place of solitude' and that children (and dogs) are not welcome. Or maybe she's just busy with her little friends. Who knows? But I kind of miss the little brat. I hope that no one has gone out of their way to make her feel unwelcome or unwanted. There's nothing I hate more than unkindness to children. 

Someone's Knockin' at the Door

The black dog, whom I call Takut, meaning 'afraid' in Bahasa, is about to give himself better reason than usual to actually be afraid. 

As is his usual  habit, Takut had gone outside the apartment complex for the night, and then, as is also his usual habit, showed up at the entry at about 4 o'clock in the morning wanting back in. Given that my own front door is only feet away from the entryway door, it is I who he has cast in role of 24 hour personal doorman. 

Generally, I am able to get up and stumble out to the entryway to open the door. I had had a hard night, however, and just couldn't quite rouse myself, despite the growing violence of his assault upon the door. I figured he would go away eventually.

By the time I woke again, at about 7 o'clock, the dog was still scratching. 

Upon opening the door, I found that he had made large gouges in the wood, and had actually torn off an ornamental part of the door's surface. 

"Boy, are you in trouble now," I said. 

Unimpressed, Takut simply headed back to his daytime home beneath the floor of the back patio, from whence he will not emerge until evening. 

The worst thing about this, really, is that I can't help but suspect that I will be blamed, merely because I am kind to the dog whenever I see him, and throw him a bone if I happen to have one in the house. That's enough to make him my dog.

Who does Takut actually belong to? I have no idea. Just as I have no idea who little Viana belongs to. Is he a stray dog, and is Viana a stray kid? I don't know. I am friendly to Viana as well, but that does not make her mine any more than the dog is mine. 

Nonetheless, I can hear it now. That's the guy who invites dogs and children into No Dogs and No Children allowed villas.

Good grief. Another fine mess a dog has gotten me into. 

Augmentin

Looks like I was right about this persistent infection in the sinuses being bacterial rather than fungal. After two days of Augmentin, I woke up this morning  to find that all of the congestion had flowed to the surface and could be expelled by some vigorous nose blowing. My God, what a relief it is to be breathing freely again and to feel clear and free from the pressure in the face and head.  There is some residual sniffing, and some tenderness in the throat, but I 'm hoping that those are the final gasps of this long, depressing illness. 

Blockhead

Boy if I thought I was sick before, I guess I gotta think again. Woke up this morning to find that my head had somehow been filled with cement from chin to brow. The original blockhead. This of course was accompanied by a tremendous headache, perhaps the worst headache of my life. My nose and eyes felt as frozen as those of a figure on Mt. Rushmore. My throat was sore as well and I felt nauseated, as if I was about to muntah at any moment, which in Indonesian means you know what. Wobbled about the room for a bit, gave my nose a couple of mighty shots of Afrin, swallowed down a pseudoephedrine tablet and a small handful of Advil and by noon or so I was feeling vaguely human again. Just sat around the house for the rest of the day watching old Ozzie and Harriett shows. My exciting like in paradise. 

Naturally, under the circumstances, I have nothing else to write about other than being ill. In fact, I think I'll change the name of this blog. Everyone Here is Sick as a Dog? Hmm. Or  how about Tedium: A Chronical of Illness? 

So anyway, I've given up on doctors for the time being. I've had three weeks of miconazole, one week of itraconazole, various antibiotics, steroid nose spray and non-steroid nose spray, allergy meds and antihistamines. What else is there? One may as well run his own experiments. It's cheaper and just as effective, or ineffective. So I have decided that the nose/sinus congestion problem is not a fungal infection (as with the throat) but a bacterial one and have therefore begun treatment with a course of Augmentin, the antibiotic most often used against sinus infections. I believe that the fungal infection is actually gone now, and that the sore throat is a result of irritation from the Afrin spray.

Snore. 

Truly, I hope to do something more interesting tomorrow. Ozzie and Harriett are certainly entertaining, but one hopes for a bit more out of the day nonetheless.  

Chat

I've had the opportunity over the past week to have a couple of extended chats with my second wife, kicking around old times--those times that we so casually threw away and which seem now to have been worth infinitely more effort than we invested. I doubt whether either of us could say now just exactly what happened, how it had happened, why we let it happen. Maybe it's because we were both just strong and proud in the full vigor of our years, and we look back now with the brittle conscience of old age. We were raising our children at that time, with the usual lavishing of love and carefulness, and we forgot to raise ourselves with the same sobriety. We forgot to protect ourselves. 

I'm so happy, in any case, to see that she has landed in the care of her daughter and her husband and is able to every day enjoy her two grandchildren in the same house. It is a large, spacious house, as I was able to see on video call, resting on an extensive plot of wooded land--a little paradise, really. As with all who have grown old, she has a number of health problems, and so I am thankful for the fact that she is with a loving family, people who will watch over her, just as we did, once upon a time, for my mother, and for her mother as well. What goes around comes around. Sometimes.