Ready or Not

Everything seems radiant with self, and at the same time distant somehow, as if it were receding from him -- moving away in time, while he stays where he is. This must be what it feels like to be dying, he thinks; the world remains around you, like a lover who does not want to hurt you by leaving, but in spirit it's already gone, taking with it the meaning of everything you shared. In truth it is already transforming into a future you will never be part of; and you realize only then that it has been transforming all the time, throughout your whole life, and you with it; and that, in fact, is life, though you never knew, and now it is over.

--The Bee Sting, Paul Murray

A penetrating, insightful passage from Paul Murray's excellent novel (which I am reading for the second time). Transforming into a future you will never be part of. That one stings. And I feel that way myself. I feel on the outside of the life that is unfolding around me. I am already not here. I'm watching someone's home movie. And that right there is how out of it I am--because people don't have home movies anymore, do they. Do you remember the old projector and the white screen on its folding stand? Do you remember having to watch someone else's life? Aware that it is important to them, at least, but that you yourself have no part to play. You are an observer. Or maybe you show up in one or two of the flickering images. There I am, you think. Proof of life. And then it's over. And you realize that as your own life unfolded you should have watched more closely, you should have lived with greater intention, you should have loved more completely, because this, this very short long life, is down to its final ticks; and what is left is nothing more than cliche - -if only I had it all to do over again .... 

Sleep Well

Before he became a father, he imagined the relationship as being like an intensive version of owning a pet. The child, he thought, was essentially passive, a vessel into which you poured your love. On TV that's how it looked. Children were silent, dormant; you went into their bedrooms, gazed down at them fondly, drew the blankets over them as they slept. 

--The Bee Sting, Paul Murray

That's not only how it looked on TV. For me. For me, that's how it was. My son, as a child, as a little boy, was everything I wanted him to be. And more. He could not have been more perfect, and no father and son can ever have been closer than we. 

That was a long time ago, when he was just a child. It was a very long time ago, and yet, at the time, it seemed like it would be that way forever. 

It was not what I expected, nor did I envision a silent, dormant creature, such as Murray describes. I envisioned nothing at all, for I had never been a father nor imagined being a father nor wanted to be a father. 

So what had been unknown and unwanted or at least unthought of became all that was known, all that was wanted, the center of thought, the birth of selfless love. 

Murray's story doesn't end at the quote above. Nor does mine. One night you draw the blankets over them, and then in the morning they are gone.

Cursed

I've been struggling over the past two weeks with two cursed problems occurring simultaneously. First off, I found myself suffering with terrifically itchy arms (something that has happened to me in the past as well). The skin was very dry and red and the more you scratched it the more itchy it got. Went to the doctor for that and found that this was actually eczema along with a skin infection, for which I received an antibiotic cream and some sort of other cream to help the skin heal. 

Then, the day after seeing the doctor about the skin problem, I woke up with the flu. And this has been a bad one--nose running like a faucet, sore throat, and finally coughing my lungs out. Impervious to cold medicine, or so it has seemed. 

But both problems seem to be on the heal now, although only slowly so. Both together have left me feeling fatigued and constantly sleepy. 

Not a great end of the summer season for me. Last night we had a heavy rain and one can feel the season changing. Soon the rains will become more common, heavier, and the stifling humidity will return. Honestly, summer (June, July and August) is the only really bearable season here. In fact it is quite pleasant. So I will have to just hunker down and look forward to summer of 2027.

An Old Couple and Etc.

Evelyn has been here in Bali for 2 weeks, and we had a cozy, pleasant time as usual, just hanging out, cooking, exploring. It seems that we have become as familiar as man and wife, an old married couple. Which I guess makes sense. We have been together now going on 6 years, per my calculations. But given that we are only able to be together once every two or three months, perhaps we have in this way avoided the familiarity that breeds contempt, as the old saying goes. 

Now she has returned to Central Java and I to such menial activities as arguing with atheists on Facebook or watching mostly substandard movies on Netflix (although I did discover not long ago that one can get lots of old movies on YouTube, some of them pretty good).

I have finished an absolutely intriguing book (if you are intrigued by plague) by Orhan Pamuk (Nights of Plague) and I am now reading Melville's The Confidence Man for the third time in these many years of mine. And finally, astoundingly, praise God, I am understanding it 😂. The prose here is very dense and sophisticated, even for Melville, but if you pay close attention, you get what is going on, beneath the surface, that is. It is, as I suddenly realize, an intensely Christian narrative, although in the cynical, satirical fashion of Twain. But it is a joy to read, and actually quite funny for its startling descriptions and turns of phrase. 

I have begun as well another Pamuk novel, The White Castle. I am reading it in Indonesian, so my progress is somewhat slow, but that in itself can be a good thing, as it tends toward a more careful focus on what is being read. Ironic, isn't it, that it can be easier to miss things written in one's own language. 

Short Circuiting as a Habit

Some time ago, my neurologist advised that I keep an eye on my mental state, as I had shared a concern with him about ongoing and seemingly increasing problems with word searching and various other forms of forgetfulness. Of course, in the back of my mind (what's left of it anyway) is always the spectre of my mother's Alzheimer's disease. My doctor tells me that there are pills for this nowadays that can slow the progress of Alzheimer's, if it is in fact determined that Alzheimer's may be present. 

This leads me to mention an event that occurred just a couple days ago. I was down in Sanur, had had my coffee at a cafe, and then walked over to the store across the street to pick up a few items. Returning to my motorbike, I decided to nip down to the beach and have a walk. 

I parked my bike, and as is customary for me, I opened the seat to get my hat and a cigarette. I closed the seat and started on my way only to discover that what I had taken from the bike was not a hat nor a cigarette but a bag of Cheetos. What am I doing with these? Damned if I know. 

So I returned to the bike, got rid of the Cheetos, started off again and found that this time what I had with me was a grocery bag. Not a hat. Not a cigarette. 

Only on the 3rd attempt did I get it right. 

Now that does strike me as odd. Sometimes it is difficult to evaluate ones own mental state. One is quick to forgive oneself little lapses in cognition, laugh them off. But this seemed significantly larger than little. One might say alarming. I am acutely aware of often having difficulty retrieving the correct words from my brain. Or of starting out to describe something, to tell one story or another, but then being unable to summon any of the names of the people, or the place names, or ultimately what the point of the story was to begin with 

There are many things like this that begin to appear not so much like unusual glitches as concerning red flags. 

But then maybe the next day the brain revives and you think well maybe I was just tired, right? Or maybe my mind was on something else. But then again, is it  reasonable to imagine that the mind cannot handle more than one task or thought at a time? 

It's a rhetorical question, of course. 

I think I need to have another talk with the doc. What's-his-name. 

On the Road Again

On the road again 

I just can't wait 

to get on the road again

--Willie Nelson

Well, I am on the road again, as my doctor has finally lifted the ban on motorbike driving, pronouncing my broken shoulder bones healed. 

I must say that after 2 months of being off the road, I felt actually a bit nervous about getting back on. Happy, but nervous. 

When I first started out, the ride felt strangely wobbly, as if I were a learning to drive all over again. But I soon got reaccustomed, without breaking anything in the way of bones, and now, a week on, I am perfectly comfortable again. Well, as comfortable as one can be among fanatic motorists.

As the old saying goes, when you fall off your horse, the best thing you can do is hop back on. 

What has Become of Us?

"What has become of us? We have plunged into hell!" 

--Nights of Plague, Orhan Pamuk

Past is prologue.

All great literature addresses the present moment at some level. No matter how long ago the story being told takes place, its essence is taking place in our present day world as well. Similarly, a plague is a plague, but also a symbol. It is a sickness at the heart of a culture, or a country, or of mankind itself. 

There is a sickness in the heart of America. There always has been. Past is prologue. You cannot watch the nightly news and say that our country is not seriously ill. Americans are being gunned down in the streets by poorly trained ICE agents. One after another these murders occur and are then quickly swept under the rug. Not one of these gun happy killers has yet been brought to justice. Innocent people are dead, and we move on, and then more die, and again we move on. 

What has become of us?

We are plunged into a war of choice against Iran. Nobody asked us. Nobody asked our Congress. And our present Congress wouldn't have done anything even if they had been asked. We hear on the news about damage to friendly naval bases or port facilities or air strips, we hear about a handful of our own people killed in the war (or the excursion, I should say), but what do we hear about the deaths we have inflicted? Almost nothing. As far as I have seen, almost nothing, save for the initial killing of Iranian government officials. But what about the people, the innocents, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, children? How many have died in our various obliteration attempts? Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Why is nothing said about this? Why does no one even seem to think about it?

In the meantime corruption gnaws at the putrifying body of what used to be our national honor and integrity. Food is snatched from the mouths of the hungry, healthcare is denied, livelihoods are degraded, and the treasure of the rich increases obscenely, while hatred of the truth abounds. 

We have plunged into hell. 

Sami Pasha had indeed seen his own crow nibbling at the eyes, noses, and ears of dead bodies; but what he did not understand was how it was possible for these birds to fear scarecrows without being afraid of human corpses too. 

--Nights of Plague, Orhan Pamuk