Sunday, January 14, 2024


It rained soggily till long after I got home. My apartment mate had already retired to her bed at that time, I myself stayed up in the teevee room browsing through the news. Surprisingly it wasn't that cold. Not precisely shirt sleeve weather, but considering the icy temperatures in places like Kansas City or Poughkeepsie (where the majority of non-San Franciscans apparently live), it may as well have been the tropics.

It is quite likely that the weather influenced my dreams. Casual violence in an area of the former Dutch East Indies, ending in the discovery of corpses when the rains washed out the mudbanks along the river, now transformed into a torrent. As it usually does toward the end of the rainy season. The paddies have been plowed, they are now vast lakes of turbulent water marching up the slopes. Discarded and very deceased criminal elements slide downhill, and get wedged among the Edward Goreyesque boulders.

Si Tengtrem tells me that corpses often turn up.
It's because of the nearby city.
Twenty kilometers.
The same truck that brought me probably also brought them. Maybe even one or more on the same trip. Which is a charming thought that I would rather put out of my mind.
He assures me that the local people NEVER create corpses.
Then asks if I want more kari hayam. Coconutty!
So good with sambel belatjan!
Almost never.

The chickens in that village were good to eat. They prided themselves on the best chickens. It was what they fed them. Add soybeans and corn. If you fed chickens properly, they would be healthy and tender. Modern, progress! And you could charge more for them.
It was worth it. Dahar naon deui nya? What else you want to eat?

On second thought, my snacking last night may have also influenced my dreams. Fruitcake, and cheese with chilipaste on toast. Feeding a Dutchman properly make his feathers glossy.

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