More Catching Up

I've still got a few journals to read - a Philosophy Now bought at Holland Village and three literary mags I picked up in December in the UK - but I'm pleased to say I finished reading the most recent Mekong Review ahead of the next edition coming out (which will be the February 2020 issue, assuming they continue to publish.) As with previous issues I was hugely impressed with the quality of the material published, this time round feeling I've begun to understand the intensity of feeling in Hong Kong, especially on the side of the protestors with two strong pieces related to recent events there, one by Kong Tsung-gan, the other by Antony Dapiran.

But it was a poem by the Singaporean writer Robert Yeo that I'll most remember this edition for. I've generally enjoyed his stuff in the past, thinking it well-crafted and worthy of attention, but not exactly outstandingly memorable. However, his funny, charming Small town romance, so beautifully captures a kind of archetypal street talk typical of the pasar malam that it constitutes an instant minor classic.

Another Lesson

Got to the gym this evening to remind myself of just how difficult it is to maintain even a basic rough and ready kind of fitness. A lesson always worth learning. A struggle to be embraced.

Holiday Reading

I've heard such good things about the Shardlake novels of C.J. Sansom that it was almost inevitable I'd start out on the series one day. Murders set in sixteenth century England against a background of deep religious divisions, with a protagonist in the service of Thomas Cromwell and his programme of Reform - what's not to like?! The paperbacks themselves look good and smell great. In fact, I would have bought the first in the series, Dissolution, back in December in the UK were it not for the fact that John & Jeanette were already familiar with the series, it being my grand plan to leave the book, once read by myself, with them to avoid having to tote it back all the way here.

In the event, I bought a copy at the Kinokuniya branch in KLCC and read it over Chinese New Year. All the good things turned out to be true. I'm now officially a fan, possibly even a fan-boy, and figuring out when I'll have a bit of time to address number 2 in the series. Also wondering to whom to lend volume 1.

Of Some Concern

Big headline in today's paper - BARRED. Thought for a moment it referred to banning anyone from China coming into Malaysia, but then realised from the small print it was only concerned with visitors from Hubei Province. So not quite the over-reaction to the spread of the coronavirus I vaguely assumed, but such a reaction isn't beyond the bounds of possibility given how understandably spooked folks in the region are about the current emergency. The virus was the main subject of the two conversations I had with residents of KL in our time there, both of whom had connections with international schools in the area with students from the PRC, which helps explain their concerns to some degree.

Back in our usual Far Place, whence we'll be wending our way on the morrow, the authorities are responding with typical alacrity and thoroughness to the situation as it stands, which is typically reassuring. There's a lot to be said for sound organisation in times of uncertainty. Let's hope the uncertainty turns out to be not so uncertain, eh?

Caught Up

When I first got hold of Tony Green's beautifully produced Kapal Haji: Singapore and the Hajj Journey by Sea, back in late-September 2019 I knew immediately I would enjoy it. It helped to have heard Tony talk about his concerns when writing the book and the engaging lay-out and organisation of the text made it perfect for dipping into on an almost casual basis, knowing that something of striking interest would most likely emerge from every segment. And such was the case.

But despite having immersed myself (dippingly) in the tome pretty thoroughly at that time, I felt it important to give the work its due with a cover-to-cover reading, and I'm glad I did. Somehow doing so over the last couple of weeks helped bring together what is necessarily, by virtue of its sheer geographical and historical range, a fragmentary text. One aspect captured of the many, many individual experiences of the pilgrimage is the quiet heroism displayed - or, rather, implied, for those undertaking the journey were not prone to display in any of its forms - hence the disregard History has shown them.

It's good to know that, finally, attention has been paid.

Catching Up

When you find yourself reading the 15 August 2019 edition of The New York Review of Books in late January of the next year, you know you've got a bit of catching-up to do. As I'm reading I'm struck by how interesting the edition is, so it's not as if there was anything that put me off reading it when I first got hold of it.

I suppose I could claim I've been busy, but when has there been a time I haven't been busy? I suspect that time I used to spend reading my journals has been eaten up by reading stuff on-line. Indeed, oftentimes it's the same stuff. But - and this is the genuinely odd thing - I suspect I read the hard-copy versions with greater concentration, somehow in greater depth.

And often with more excitement than I feel reading on-line. For example, there's an excellent highly enthusiastic piece on a Swedish poet named Harry Martinson and a sort of epic poem he wrote in the 1950s set in space entitled Aniara: A Review of Man in Time and Space that got me considerably fired-up. It seems there's also an opera based on the poem and a recent film, along with other miscellaneous responses. I'm now thinking of a way to expose myself to the work in one of its guises.

At Ease

Yesterday's decision to delay our journey until evening proved uncannily canny. Our passage north was almost effortless, apart from actually doing the driving, sailing easily across at Tuas with nary a jam in sight. We got here before 2.00 am, having enjoyed lavish roti bakar at the ARAB café, and happily collapsed, surfacing only late in the morning. Actually I've got some work to do whilst we're here, but I'm treating myself to a day off, thank you very much.

For some reason my ears seem particularly keen on sweet sounds at the moment, having feasted on the gently acoustic side of Richard Thompson and the monstrously live side of King Crimson (in Chicago) on the journey north. This morning I listened to Haydn's Symphony 95 with a curious hyper-intensity and it was like hearing it for the first time. Glorious beyond words. Decided that the world would be a better place if Haydn were compulsory listening for all each morning.

In Delay

Now I know the Bard didn't think much of hanging around - In delay there lies no plenty, and all that sort of thing - but the Missus and I are practising the cunning art of necessary delay at this precise moment and I reckon it makes good sense. We've been informed of the jams at Tuas on the eve of Chinese New Year and reconsidered the master plan, which was to set off directly after the conclusion of Friday Prayers. Instead I came back to sleep for a couple of hours and generally just chill through the afternoon.

We're now targeting an evening take-off, hopeful that the traffic might have thinned out a bit at that point. Mind you, there's fair chance we're going to get this horribly wrong and curse our bad judgement, but that's all part of the fun of public holidays in these parts.

I'll let you know how we fared tomorrow, Gentle Reader, assuming we've arrived elsewhere by then.

Rushing Around Again

Now grabbing bits and pieces we'll be taking up to KL tomorrow. Yes, we're off north again for Chinese New Year and, as ever, dealing with the last minute flurry of baking biscuits, changing money, figuring what CDs to take, trying not to forget passports, and the like. I sound like I'm complaining, and I am, sort of, but I suspect at some level I enjoy all this.

Mystery Man

On the anniversary of his death I've been thinking of Dad and his rages today.

Now that's a very strange sentence, and anyone who knew my Dad would tell you so. He was one of the most gentle, self-effacing of men and very, very rarely lost his temper. In all the time I knew him I can recall such a loss twice, hence the rages I refer to above. But these were real rages, as if something quite extraordinary had been unleashed in him.

The first time happened on the road outside our house at Haughton Green. Dad would have been in his forties, I think, and a much younger guy from up the road got funny with him. Dad didn't respond well and after a prolonged exchange of colourful words the guy ended up running away. I was startled, and pleased, to see my father clearly more than capable of sorting the youngster out: as the row concluded he was heading towards him and you just knew he wasn't going to stop. The second time the rage was aimed (quite rightly) at me (being snarkily insufferable.) Dad did stop, because I think he knew he'd really frightened me, even though I tried to save face and not back down. It was startlingly out of character, but I kind of guessed the capacity for such rage was part of who he was.

I mention this because it occurred to me today that my own capacity for extreme fury (thankfully much reduced and controlled in recent years) comes from Dad. I'd kind of assumed that, along with my propensity for being generally irascibly bad-tempered when things aren't going well, it came from Mum, but what's involved in such moments is something quite different - and much more disturbing. I don't know where Dad got it from or how he'd had to control it over his life. Which is a reminder of how much a mystery even those we are close to often remain. Indeed, it further occurs to me that I remain a bit of a mystery to myself in my own fragmented way.