Dust to Dust

There is a very old man on my street (I'm a fine one to talk) who comes around to collect the garbage. It is difficult to say how old this man might be. I'm thinking 100, maybe 130, something like that. Lol. He is a small old guy, brown skin baked nearly black by constant exposure to the sun, as wrinkled and inflexible as beef jerky, arms like knobby hardwood sticks, big black-framed spectacles perched on his nose beneath a permanent, floppy, discolored baseball cap. Up and down the broken street he goes, dragging a large burlap sack. This morning, he entered the gate and began to empty my garbage, already in a black plastic bag, into his own burlap sack. "Pak," I said, "just take the whole bag. You don't have to empty it into your own. I have more." He disagreed, likely unable to picture throwing away a perfectly good plastic sack. Moreover, upon emptying the one sack into the other, he proceeded to tidy up the patio area itself, emptying my ashtray, picking up bits of paper or leaves and adding them to his haul. "Pak," I said, "I can sweep. It's no problem. You can just leave the little bits." He disagreed. Such a thing is likely at odds with his own work ethic. And so he hobbles away, dragging his burlap bag, picking of bits of trash that he finds on the roadside. Louis had told me not to deal with this old guy, not to trust him, but I can't see why; for to me he seems the very salt of the earth, an animated dust rendered mindful--no different, essentially, than any of us, for from dust we came and to dust we shall return.

Da 5 Bloods

Back in 2008, Spike Lee made an excellent World War II movie called Miracle at St. Anna, a war story, and an American story, from the viewpoint of black soldiers in the Italian campaign. I therefore looked forward to seeing Lee's just released Vietnam story, Da 5 Bloods.

What a disappointment! Especially considering Lee's past film achievements--Do the Right Thing, Malcolm X, Summer of Sam, BlacKkKlansman and so on--Da 5 Bloods is an embarrassing departure into mediocrity at best. The acting is largely deplorable, the dialogue stilted and artificial, ideas are introduced not as natural parts of the narrative but like dry footnotes on an inexpertly done college paper. The story is corny and derivative, which even the actors seem to know. The battle scenes lack all the tension and realism of those in Miracle at St. Anna, or in nearly any modern war film. I mean, when you're stacking up against Platoon and Full Metal Jacket and Private Ryan and The Thin Red Line, you gotta do a whole lot better than this, man! Nor are the depictions of Vietnam era military action even believable. Five men helicoptered alone into a hot zone--really? And when ground troops entered a hot zone, observed heavy enemy activity in the verging jungle, what did they do? Did they begin heroically running toward the enemy, all guns blazing? Hell no! They called in artillery fire, they called in airstrikes, they called in napalm. Lol. My goodness, who you tryin' to fool, dude?

A serious, meaningful film could have been done from this perspective--and needs to be done, I would add. But this sure as hell ain't it. Although the story nearly finds itself in the last fifteen minutes or so, it's too little, too late. I'm sorry to have to give this one a rating of 'Don't bother'. 
 

Discussion, Debate, or Sermon?

Don't you hate it when people accuse you of being closed-minded if you don't agree with their own viewpoint on things? Lol. This happens fairly regularly in Facebook discussions. My own method of approaching matters of debate is to be dispassionately analytical wherever possible, to apply logic to the particulars of an event rather than to jump to conclusions that will fit with my own political or moral viewpoint. But people are looking to have their own perspectives authenticated, which involves a reshaping of the narrative such that it will fit the desired conclusion. I can't do that. They will often believe that their own thinking has been very fair and thorough even as the construct that they have created for an event is riddled with omissions, adjustments and presumptions. It's irritating. Why even bother debating, one wonders. Well … why indeed?
 

A Dream or Two

I dreamed last night that I was walking through a field of mud, and as the dream proceeded I realized that this was not mud but largely oil. The soil itself was mired with black oil and the field stretched all around me as far as the eye could see. The farther I walked, the more acutely aware I became of a pervasive gassy odor such that it finally became nearly overwhelming. There was a noise as well that steadily increased, a mechanical humming growing to a rattling roar. I awoke at last through a trudging of laborious seconds to the realization that this was the sound of a large truck passing on the street and that the area was being hosed with acrid clouds of mosquito preventative.

Well good, I guess. I myself had been stung multiple times during the night and had awaken multiple times because of this. They take these precautions in seasons high for dengue fever--although judging from my experience this night, the measures might have been taken too late for my benefit. And while it is clear that these deadly clouds are not good for the health of the mosquitoes, one cannot help but wonder how good they are for one's own respiratory health. It is advisable of course to shut all doors and windows and turn off the AC as the clouds roll in, but on the other hand, they do this at around 5 o'clock in the morning, and who wants to get up at 5 in the morning to run around shutting doors and windows and turning off the AC?

All this reminded me at last of the mountain forests where I used to spend my summers, of how the air was permeated with a sort of miraculous cleanness, where even the dirt was clean, and the stones, and the scrub brush, and the huckleberry and blueberry bushes were clean and exhaling a sort of minty purity, and there was the scent of the pines and the firs, the skin of cedar and birch, and the water sparkled like seltzer on the shore and at the deep you could see all the way to the bottom. I slept again standing on one of those shores, thankful, safe, at home, and at uncommon rest.

Burden

I watched a rather good movie last night, a 2018 film called Burden, which just happened to end up being particularly pertinent in these recent times. This film tells the true story of a young member of the Ku Klux Klan who is converted by a girlfriend and by a local black pastor through an expansion of his viewpoint gained in interacting with the black community and being introduced in a meaningful way to the teachings of Christ--not the sword carrying, blue eyed, blond-haired bigot of the Klan, but, you know, the real guy.

The movie begins with the opening of a KKK museum in a small South Carolina town. The ensuing protest led by the pastor (Forrest Whitaker) leads to increasing division and mounting violence. And this is in 1994, believe it or not. The part of the young Klan member is excellently played by Garrett Hedlund, portraying an Army veteran who is often kindhearted, fair-minded, and is yet a product, through upbringing and culture as well as poor white Southern norms, of a long tradition of ignorance and hatred so ingrained that it has become second nature. Hedlund's attitude and mannerisms, his gait, speech, facial expressions, simple emotional reactions and conflicted response to the awakening that forces itself upon him are all perfectly done.

The film speaks to us as well about the power of the Klan, not only over its members, but over community structures and institutions. Going against the Klan is not just a matter of alienating one's friends, but of having the entire fabric of one's existence--job, opportunity, home, esteem--pulled out from under him.

It is, in a large sense, a tale of conditioning--not only in white culture but in black as well, and speaks ultimately of growth, of healing, of what it means to love not only one another, but to love one's enemy.
 

Little by Little

Bali is opening slowly these days, although a number of restrictions are still in effect and various measures have been taken to dissuade the gathering of large crowds. In Plaza Renon mall, for instance, only the lower part of the parking lot is open, thus limiting the number of people who can visit the mall at the same time. The escalators don't work (making things difficult for old guys like me with weak legs). Masks are required and one must have his temperature taken upon entry. Starbucks is open, with restricted hours, coffee must be served in paper cups, and food is served without plates or utensils. There was a large gathering at a popular street market in Kerobokan but this was closed down by the police when crowd size and social distancing rules were not being observed.

Step by step as we enter the brave new world of what President Jokowi calls 'the new normal'.

At the same time, I hear from my doctor friend in Surabaya, now a 'black zone city', that her close friend, a fellow doctor, has died from corona. She tells me that the situation 'is going to get much worse'.

And we are at a loss really, aren't we, as to what we are to do. Life must go on, the wheels of economy around the world must grind back into motion. We watch as infection rates rise again and we begin to feel like you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't. We feel like we have made an extraordinary effort, and yet it appears that the disease merely ducked its head for a moment and then began swinging again. We continue to perform our puny measures of self preservation, wearing our masks, washing our hands, avoiding human touch, and we walk forth again into a world of random chance. Bisa buat apa? as they say here. What else can one do?

 

Debate, So-Called

For some time now I have been a participant in a couple of Indonesian American forums on Facebook which have themselves for some time been largely devoted to political debate regarding events in American government and society.

Debate, however, is not an accurate term for much of what goes on on these sites. What I am finding instead is crude vitriol, discourtesy, disrespect, impudence--all of the familiar tools and manners which are by now so familiar to us as coming predominantly from Trump supporters who, across the board, have always seemed particularly lacking in civility and failing in a grasp of the meaning of the term 'debate'.

This in itself does not surprise me at this late point in time. What does surprise me, however, is the adoption of these attitudes, this stubborn insolence, by Indonesian immigrants to America.

Here are just a few examples:

You need to shut the hell up!

You can't handle the truth!

You're just a fake.

Well look at the protesters n looters! They don't give a damn care about their health or their victims! Only the TV, brand name purses, jeans and shoes etc! I' d just leave them alone and let the nature (Virus) do its marvelous works! (Lol. Racist, much?).

hahaha, I don't think so. maybe you need glasses and find legit sources instead of watching fake news. (Legit sources def: Fox News and various wacko far right commentators).

Well, and so on.

Having after nine years become accustomed to the more gracious society of Bali and the more respectful people of Indonesia in general, I am astounded and saddened to see the carelessness and rudeness that Indonesian immigrants appear to have learned from us. Even more disheartened am I by the abandonment of respect for elders so native to Indonesian culture. Such manners would leave the locals here aghast and ashamed.

Having said as much, I will be quick to acknowledge that there are certainly those who thoughtfully debate with cordial civility. These are indeed those who bring the best of Indonesia to my own native country, and for whom I am thankful and to this extent encouraged.