The Feast

 I had this recurring dream last night, only this time a new part was added. In the dream, I am walking through the woods with a companion, usually either my girlfriend or my brother. We come upon a wall in the woods which is white and appears to be of solid cement, but at some point we find that a secret section of the wall opens up. This opens into a house. The house has obviously been occupied, or is currently occupied but no one is home. It is decorated rather lavishly with all kinds of interesting things, books and knick knacks and stained glass lamps and so on.

In previous versions of the dream, we just hang out there for a while and then leave. But in the new version last night we find that there is another wall within this house that also opens. This one opens into a grand mansion. The main floor is crowded with people and they are attending a feast at a long wooden table. We spot someone who knows us and we think Oh damn we're going to be busted for trespassing. 

Instead, the man at the head of the table stands up, arms out stretched, and says welcome, come, eat and drink!

As we make our way to the table, we are greeted by multiple guests who throw their arms around us and embrace us. But it is more than just a common embrace. It is like being enveloped in pure love. 

And this is where the new version of the dream ends, just as we are making our way to the table.

There are small details that I have forgotten, and they are most likely pertinent details. Maybe I will remember them next time.

The Open Boat

 I have had such a pleasant time these last few days with Sasha, who is visiting from his home in Arizona- - telling stories, laughing, and then quietly discussing our lives, both apart and together. 

Today, he told me a story about Albert. Also known to his ex-wife, and now my ex-wife too, as fat Albert. Albert is Sasha's father, whom of course I remember very well. Sasha lives with his father and his stepmother back in Phoenix. Albert is the sort of guy who has big ideas and then champions his own ideas with vigor and enthusiasm. 

Let's go to Mexico! Albert said. We can fish in the ocean. A guy told me you can catch huge fish just off the beach! 

Sasha is a reticent sort of guy, a bit of a homebody, and, from experience, a bit suspicious of these ideas that his father comes up with. But on the other hand, Albert is a persistent sort of guy and will, and did, tirelessly press his point. 

So they took the van and went to Mexico. To catch huge fish in the ocean. 

Sasha, as he explains, envisioned a boat of some kind, you know made of wood or aluminum or whatever. What they got upon arriving in Mexico was an inflatable rubber raft with a little motor mounted on the back. 

Off they went into the sea. Having gotten beyond the breakers, they had begun to prepare their fishing gear when Sasha noticed that the raft was taking on water. Not just a little water. A lot of water. And rather suddenly so. 

Why are my shoes wet? Albert said. Oh. Oh man. F*ck

They begin to bail water, first with their hands, then with the tackle box, but it's no use. The raft is sinking. Albert tries to start the motor, and it will not start. They are now sitting in water while the motor gasps it's last oily breaths. 

We're gonna to have to swim for it, Boy! Albert says. Quick! Take off your shoes! They will weigh you down! 

Where do I put them? 

Just drop them, Boy! Throw all non-essentials overboard! 

Overboard? But the overboard is already underwater.

And so, shoeless, they swam for it, in the wide blue sea, under the pitiless Mexican sky. The open boat. Or in this case, the sunken boat. Big Albert and his little mate. The skipper and Gilligan. They swam and they swam, the tide going out, and Sasha finally out of breath, arms aching, and the shore seemingly no nearer.

Did I ever tell you about the time I almost drowned? 

This is how Sasha had begun the story. 

Well, he didn't drown, obviously, and praise God for that. At last, he washed up on the beach, like a disabled dolphin. His father more like a whale nearby. And there they lay on the sand, wheezing and coughing, contemplating this most recent grand idea and adventure.

Sasha was not laughing at the time. Not at all. And yet we were laughing now until our sides hurt and tears fell from our eyes. That's just the way Sasha can tell a story. He's a natural. And it's the way he looks at the various trials and disasters of the past. That too is a gift.

Guilty

 What a sad end to such a sad chapter in American history, right? Right? Or hopefully an end, or at least the indisputable beginning of an inevitable end.

Guilty on 34 counts of 34 crimes. 

More deplorable yet than the criminal, in my view anyway, is the parade of Republicans who are insisting that the American justice system is fixed or corrupt. It wouldn't be so, of course, for any other criminal, but in this special case, involving Mr. Trump, it is. The entire system, from prosecutors to judges to juries, is somehow miraculously aligned against poor Mr. Trump.

Who is buying that sort of conspiracy theory tripe? Very few, one would hope. It is time for America to return to a traditional democratic system, the twin, one might say, of an orthodox religious system. We tire, I hope, of foolish heresies.

Exercising for Trumpstipation

 Well I've been gone for a while, once again, but I'm back now, after a fashion anyway--this time back from the nightmare of hernia surgery. This may not be so bad for many, or most folks, but see I've never had surgery of any kind before. I did not know that it would be so painful. Lol. Luckily for me, my girlfriend insisted on flying here from Jogya and staying with me in the hospital and then afterwards during the first week of recovery, for which I am so very grateful. 

We stayed in what this public hospital refers to as a VIP room, but which in any western country would be considered rather small and shabby. One hospital bed and one narrow cot and a view of ... well, the other hospital buildings. At least the AC was good. Better in fact than mine at home, which is once again broken and blowing just plain old air. 

After coming home, Evelyn encouraged me to try to move about as much as possible. Instead of just sitting and watching the Trump news, why don't you watch it while stretching. The idea being that something positive might come of the Trump news after all. So I began to move about and do simple stretches as demonstrated by her.

On top of the hernia problem itself, I had been experiencing, before, during, and after surgery, a problem with chronic constipation, and this became particularly problematic when combined with a hernia and a new surgical wound in the groin. Ouch! 

So it happened that I named this activity Exercising for Trumstipation.

I'm feeling better now, the Trumpstipation has at last resolved, and I am able to drive the motorbike and walk a fairly straight line from a parking spot to a cafe. Moreover, my stepson, Sasha, has arrived here from America and is currently staying with me out at Louis and Wayne's villa in Renon (Louis and Wayne are in Europe and will return next week). And my God he is big now, and tall, and buffed, while I have somehow shrunken! Sasha loves to talk and laugh and philsophize and critique, and we are having a great time together.

Chicken Feet

 As I was taking my morning walk on the beach front this morning, I came upon a chicken foot lying on the ground. Not the whole chicken, thank goodness. Just the foot. This actually was not surprising, because Indonesians eat chicken feet. They're called ceker. This particular ceker had been discarded for some reason. Perhaps it didn't taste footy enough? I don't know, because I've never eaten a chicken foot. One sees them on the menu in restaurants here, especially in smaller warungs or on the cart of the street seller. Ceker! Yum. I guess. 

Speaking of bodily appendages, I will mention that the young people in the Muslim community here will greet an older person, like me, by taking the person's hand in theirs and placing the back of the hand on their forehead, bowing slightly as they do so. I think that's nice, personally. It's nice to be offered respect, to be honored because of your age alone. You shall stand up before the gray head and honor the face of an old man, the Bible tells us. 

Sounds good to me. Much better than the western concept of the aged worthless eater.

The Surgeon's Knife

 Having spent countless hours in the hospital over the last two days, mostly waiting to see the doctor, to get an x-ray, to get an EKG, to consult over each, and then to perform the bureaucratic trigonometry of calculating and agreeing to a payment contract, I am finally ready for the surgeon's knife (although the knife itself, along with the surgeon, won't be ready for me until next Monday. 

Oh happy day, right? The elderly and unwell man's notion of success. Assuming the surgery itself is successful, that is. 

I am told as well by a good natured, rather cheerful cardiologist, that this all comes with somewhat elevated risk factors, given the aforementioned elderliness and unwellness. Ah well, he who plays it safe never brings home the gold. Or is it the bacon. In any case, the careful man brings home both the body and the hernia, whereas the bold man brings home either one or the other. 

The Beginning of the End

 So, I have discovered that the price for hernia surgery at Sanglah Hospital is half that at Kasih Ibu. Obviously, I will be getting the surgery at Sanglah. This, however, is old-fashioned open surgery, not the newfangled laparoscopic version, because I can't afford the latter at either hospital. Can't really afford the former either for that matter, but what's a guy gonna do? Hope to die before the next big problem shows up, I guess. So I'm gettin' this thing on the road. Tomorrow I go for a second appointment with Dr. Mulyawan at Sanglah, at which time I would guess the surgery date will be set. I do know, however, that I must stop clopidogrel at least five days before surgery, and tomorrow will be only day one. It appears that I will be compelled to stay in the hospital at least one day after the surgery (I would rather just go home and do my groaning in private). Evelyn hopes to come here and accompany me at that time. She's an angel.